


The Ice Plague: Book 2 - The Seething Seas

by not_poignant



Series: The Ice Plague [2]
Category: Fae Tales - not_poignant, Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Original Work
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Augus 'Wine Aunt' Each Uisge, Augus Each Uisge/Gwyn ap Nudd - Freeform, BDSM, Bondage, Book 2 of 3, Breathplay, Compulsions, Dark, Disturbing Themes, Dominance/submission, Dubious Consent, Emesis, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eran 'Wow that's a lot of Water' Iliakambar, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Forced Orgasm, Grief, Gwyn 'Very Worried (TM)' ap Nudd, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Major Communication Issues, Mind Control, Minor Character Death, Mosk 'This is Stupid' Manytrees, Mythology - Freeform, Nightmares, Overstimulation, PTSD, Politics, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Questionable Consent, Seelie Court, Suicidal Ideation, Trauma Recovery, Unseelie Court, chronic disability, epic fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2019-11-07 11:45:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 117,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17959874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_poignant/pseuds/not_poignant
Summary: Eran Iliakambar and Mosk Manytrees shelter from the invincible, sentient plague of ice aboard the Mantissa, a huge legendary ship that hasn’t sailed for hundreds of years. Aboard Ondine’s ship, among a mixed Seelie and Unseelie crew, the two have a chance to get to know each other better. Or they would, but the sea is rife with thorny politics, and the most powerful fae in the world have their eyes on them. (Book 2 of 3)





	1. The Past Revisited

**Author's Note:**

> **Author’s note:** Many tags will be added as we go but the fundamental ones are there. This book will make no sense if you haven’t read book 1! We are on a two week updating schedule, but if there are five weeks in a month, I may go to three weeks to give myself a bit more breathing room this year, the next two months are going to be intense.
> 
> AND WE ARE BACK! *drumrolls on my own desk which, ah, needs a clean. Let's ignore that, we have more important things to focus on!* It's been a wild three months writing up a really solid buffer for this, and I'm so excited with what's coming. [There is absolutely a playlist just for this book!](https://open.spotify.com/user/1231121791/playlist/0cnXUva2q3alxOifvk1nUX?si=CmnLUXwLQiK53TKNnmUdQQ)
> 
> Thank you in advance to all the people who kudos, bookmark, subscribe, comment and more. Yall are MVPs.

_Mosk_

*

The Mantissa was a huge ship, and Mosk found himself in a linen closet that had its own corridor, smelling of fish leather and the lanolin found in wool, amazed at the array of fabrics available. But most of it was in blues or greens or violets or silvers. It wasn’t what he was looking for.

He’d adjusted to the rocking of the ship quickly. He wasn’t sure if it was because he’d had so much practice learning to walk while dizzy on the land, or if it was because he was just ready for the ocean, but he even risked climbing some of the shelves to see what was stashed away up there.

Small footsteps, and he looked down to see a sea trow on the floor gazing up at him, the fins on its neck lifting with curiosity.

‘Um,’ Mosk said.

The sea trow ran away, its feet slapping flatly along the ground, the door closing behind it.

‘Okay,’ Mosk muttered to himself. He broke into a sweat as he climbed higher, his feet on the fourth shelf up. He used to be so much fitter than this, was surprised at how weak he felt. Climbing trees used to be easy. Now, shelving had conquered him.

He braced his back against the shelves behind him, his legs bent, feet resting on the shelf in front of him. He let his arms hang down. Up here though, he could see brighter fabrics, and after catching his breath, pulled himself up until he could grab a stack of blankets in warm colours. He yanked them all down so they fell.

He reached for another stack of blankets, but felt his body give out from fatigue. With a cry, he fell hard to the floor, a five foot drop that had him groaning softly to himself, even though he’d landed mostly on the blankets. He stared at the ceiling high above him for several minutes, not thinking of much at all. This was stupid. He was being stupid.

The rope around his wrist creaked as he squeezed it, he closed his eyes. What was he even doing? Eran wouldn’t care about bright coloured blankets. Mosk covered his face with his hand and breathed shakily, tired enough that he could nap right there on the floorboards and blankets.

After another twenty minutes passed, he forced himself up and picked up all of the blankets, not realising how many he’d gathered. It would do.

*

He hesitated in front of Eran’s room. The lanterns here were swinging slowly, even though in other parts of the ship, the lights were magicked to stay still. Mosk had explored some of it, getting bored in his own room, not wanting to disturb Eran while he was healing. It had been three days since they’d boarded the Mantissa, and the last time Mosk went aboveboard, they’d swung so far away from land that Mosk couldn’t see it anymore. Not even islands. Everything was blue desert and the whisper of the waves.

Bits and pieces of terminology were new to him, but he was starting to understand what they meant. The rigging that helped to hold the masts up were called shrouds. The person-sized bucket at the very top of the tallest masts was the crow’s nest. Mosk stared up at it and wanted to get well enough to climb the thick rope shrouds, the rest of the rigging, and sit in the highest one. He’d been in trees that were taller, but not very often.

Wanting things terrified him though, and so after staring at the crow’s nest while Awan pointed it out to him, he’d excused himself and left, feeling breathless and scared of the boat and himself. Awan was very intense. Every time Awan stopped to help him, Mosk expected to be yelled at. His whole family had gentle dispositions. Even when they were angry, they never yelled. But Awan yelled up and down the ship, giving people orders, and everyone rushed to listen like he was going to punish them. Mosk had never _seen_ anyone get punished, but Awan was intimidating.

Mosk didn’t want to get in his way and tried to make sure he didn’t make trouble, but Awan always found him and asked if he wanted to know anything. Mosk understood Gwyn being treated like a guest. He was the Unseelie King. He understood Ash and Augus being treated like guests, they were part of his Inner Court. But Mosk and Eran and Julvia were just…superfluous.

Maybe not Julvia, but Mosk hadn’t seen her, and he didn’t know where she was sleeping, and he’d never look for her anyway.

In fact, after so long travelling so closely together, Mosk hadn’t seen anyone except Eran and the ship crew in three days, and didn’t know where anyone was.

After a long pause before Eran’s door, he awkwardly reached for the handle and pushed his way inside. He stopped when he saw that Eran was doing some kind of slow, deliberate exercise on the floor in front of his bed.

‘I didn’t want to interrupt,’ Mosk said, backing up quickly and then closing the door between them before Eran could react.

Why didn’t he _knock?_

He was still standing there when Eran opened the door, amber eyes glowing, a faint trace of sweat on his forehead. Eran smiled, then tilted his head indicating that Mosk should come in.

‘I was going through some old exercises to get my legs used to moving again,’ Eran said. ‘I can do them another time. What do you have there?’

Mosk could hardly see Eran over all the blankets he held, and his shoulders hunched up, raising the blankets higher so that Eran couldn’t see his face.

‘This is stupid,’ Mosk said.

‘Okay,’ Eran said. ‘But come in anyway. Here, let me take some of that from you.’

Eran took all of it easily, walking back into his room and giving Mosk no choice but to follow, closing the door behind him quietly as he went.

He felt absently in his pocket for the piece of shell the verkhwin had given him. He did it multiple times a day. Sometimes there was moss on it, sometimes there wasn’t. Mosk scraped it off every time and it would grow again, sometimes quickly or slowly. Mosk didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t want anyone to look at him strangely. Didn’t want them thinking he was fixed and healed when he wasn’t. He didn’t want Gwyn to make him use it for something he didn’t want to use it for.

So it was a secret, and he checked the shell to make sure his powers were in check. They almost never were. He had no idea what would make the moss grow and what wouldn’t. At least for now, the shell felt like a shell.

‘Blankets?’ Eran said.

Mosk felt nervous. He walked over and placed both of his hands on one of them. It was incredibly soft and didn’t feel like any normal fabric. Tiny threads glistened in the light and he tipped it back and forth. It was orange and red, and then magenta and violet.

‘There’s no fire in here,’ Mosk said. ‘And everything is blue and green. I know it’s not a fire, or a fireplace…’

He heard himself saying the words and wanted to run away. Maybe he should’ve just given them to one of the sea trows and told it to take the blankets to Eran, and to not say who they were from. Except the sea trows didn’t always want to stick around to hear an order. Mosk didn’t actually know what their role was on the ship. They listened to Ondine sometimes, and Uhina, and definitely Awan, but he’d seen them turn their nose up to other orders, or choose selective deafness when someone was trying to get their attention.

‘And I didn’t get a chance to look through them,’ Mosk added.

He risked looking at Eran, and saw that he’d clenched up one of the blankets in his brown fists, staring at it unblinking. Was he remembering something from the past? Had Mosk done something wrong?

‘And I can take them all back,’ Mosk said quickly.

‘No!’ Eran said, looking at him, his eyes wide. ‘No.’

He looked back to the blanket and then smiled at it. He reached for another one, made more obviously of large fish scales that glowed a reddish-pink. It was hard and scaly on the top, soft underneath.

‘This could be clothing instead of a blanket,’ Eran said, stroking his palm over the scales. ‘I’ve never seen blankets like this before. My mother would have turned it into armour. But maybe it’s not suitable. I bet it keeps the heat in really well. Do you think they sleep in beds like we do? Or in water?’

‘I don’t know,’ Mosk said, easing onto a small patch of Eran’s bed, because he was still tired and sore from having climbed the shelving. ‘I haven’t seen where they sleep. There’s a lot of rooms though.’

‘I am missing fire,’ Eran said, his voice low. ‘A lot. Do you think I’ll be able to make one here at all? I made one in my palms yesterday, but it’s not the same as a fireplace.’

‘Maybe if you came aboveboard…’

‘No,’ Eran said, shaking his head quickly.

Eran was still scared of the sea, and even though Ash’s glamour had gotten Eran over the paralysing terror he’d felt at the battle, Mosk knew he still couldn’t handle it. But Mosk wanted him to see that it wasn’t so bad, and that it was certainly no scarier than fire when it was out of control. He didn’t know what to say. He knew what it was to have people forcing him to do something before he was ready, he wouldn’t do that to Eran.

‘I like these,’ Eran said. ‘A lot. And you got them for me?’

When Eran looked at him, Mosk couldn’t move and was fairly certain he couldn’t breathe either. He sat there, locked up, unable to say a single word. He’d wanted Eran to like them, but the weight of Eran’s attention was a lot, and as Eran waited for him to reply, Mosk forced himself to stare down at the ground.

‘Maybe,’ Mosk said, his voice strained.

He flinched hard when he felt fingers in his hair, but after only pausing, Eran didn’t withdraw. Instead Eran’s fingers – so warm – dug down until they could rest against his scalp, the pressure firm enough that Mosk didn’t cringe. But he couldn’t look up either.

‘Thank you,’ Eran said. ‘Really.’

‘Whatever.’

Eran laughed, and Mosk hated that he was laughing at how Mosk was behaving. He should have left them by Eran’s door. He shouldn’t have done this at all. He swallowed and shrugged, and Eran’s fingers tightened and moved Mosk’s head up until Mosk had no choice but to look at his face.

‘Thank you,’ Eran said again.

Mosk jerked free, yanking his hair out of Eran’s hand, and he stood up, rubbing his upper arms. He felt shivery and his skin crawled.

‘I just- It’s stupid. I know it’s not fire.’

‘I know that too,’ Eran said patiently. ‘I still like them.’

‘So I have to go, anyway,’ Mosk said, moving quickly towards the door. ‘Bye.’

He left and didn’t hear Eran call him back, and as he walked into his own room, he shoved his hand in his pocket and felt a ball of moss instead of the shell, and groaned, slamming the door behind him.

*

That night, he drank a canister of sap and scraped all the moss off the shell, and then sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the door. It felt strange to not be constantly on the move, to not be dreading attacks, and he didn’t know how he felt about this sudden change in his circumstances. Even before he’d met Eran, he’d spent his time going from bar to tavern to pub, whichever would have him, and he’d been ambushed on the way sometimes. For a week, he’d been a hostage to a camp of Unseelie fae that got bored of fucking him and left him behind, and eventually he’d start feeling something again, and the itch would make him go find somewhere that would take him in, distract him.

He wasn’t used to being alone with his thoughts like this, and he wasn’t used to having so many. He didn’t like it. He kept thinking about the ice. He thought about the battles they’d been in. He thought about how useless he was. He thought about how close he’d been to picking up the bow and arrows before Eran had stopped him. He thought about the Nain Rouge out there, waiting for them.

He fell asleep curled on the foot of the bed, his hands up by his face.

*

Alone in the underworld, wanting to be anywhere else. Mosk stared at his hands, could only feel bloody spaces where his claws should have been, and felt so weak and awful, and could feel the atmosphere of the place _eating_ him. It nipped and nibbled like tiny fish, shadows scraping against him, eroding him until he was nothing like what he once was. He didn’t remember his name sometimes.

_Augus…_

He dreaded the Nightingale, but needed him. The Nightingale was light and a voice and the promise of more pain and always, _always,_ devastation.

He curled up on his side and stared into nothing. He waved his hand in front of himself. Nothing. Sometimes he saw wild hallucinations. Huge masses of malevolence cresting into him. Tiny plagues of hungry darknesses biting into his body. He’d scream and scream, and never know if it was real or illusion or something about the underworlds.

He’d try to meditate, but all he’d feel was the drain of being there, as though the lake inside himself had sprung a leak and all he had left to fill it with was poison.

He was going to die here.

He was going to die here, and he was never going to see Ash again. He was going to die here, and a new Each Uisge would come, and no one would care that he existed. Just one more monster in a line of monsters, trapped by someone greater than he.

A faint whine, and he heard the scrape of something on the stone behind him, and he turned quickly even though he couldn’t see a thing. Something bright and horrid was twisting and forming in the darkness, and then he saw two black, depthless eyes, and shrieked as they leapt for him, a blaze of pain chasing him down into the dark.

*

Mosk woke with a start, clawing at himself to get the _thing_ off him, then cried out when he nearly fell off the bed.

He forced himself to sit up and look around, for a moment confused about where he was, _who he was._ Then he realised what had happened, and he slumped back into the bed with a quiet sob.

This thing that Olphix had infected him with, making him see other people’s worst memories instead of being able to speak about what happened to him… Even though the curse itself had broken, the memories stayed. It was no longer only the Aur forest fire that ruined him, but other things that crept into his darkest thoughts. He hated the underworlds. And he’d still only experienced them through Augus’ eyes.

He ran his hands over his face, his arms, paying particular attention to the bark there. He couldn’t feel the touch of his fingers properly through the bark, but he liked the texture against his fingers, and it reminded him that he wasn’t a waterhorse, he wasn’t in the underworlds, he wasn’t waiting for the Nightingale. He’d never even _met_ him.

Was Augus dreaming of the same thing? Maybe not. Mosk felt sick and lay flat and stared at the ceiling, trying to quell the worst of the nausea. He was so tired of throwing up, and he was so, _so_ tired.

He wanted to go to Eran’s room. He wanted to lie on Eran’s bed. They’d been camping so close to each other. Even in Oengus’ tower their rooms had been connected, no door separating them.

Mosk didn’t push himself up, but he did move until he could burrow under the blankets, dragging pillows towards himself, feeling the back and forth of the ship in his bones and blood.

He didn’t want to sleep again, but he was still deep enough in his sleep cycle that the terror faded to fear, and his eyelids turned heavy again. He wished he could drink something that would make him stop dreaming. Hoped that his sleep would contain nothing but blackness. And _not_ the kind he felt in the underworlds.

*

It was hours later when he woke up from a nightmare of Eran and his experiences with the ice. His forearm felt like it was burning where the ice had touched him. His heart raced with the need to get away. He still heard Eran’s father – Ifir? – shouting at him to _run._ The worst part was feeling Eran’s expansive sense of connection to his family, the land, _everything,_ and the denial, the bright spark of hope that flew alongside the terror as Eran turned and fled. Eran – even in his worst memory – still dared to believe he could save his family.

Mosk rolled off the bed and sniffed absently, and gave up on sleeping.

He walked through the ship, not knowing what time it was. He saw fae sometimes, and they looked at him soberly, and he looked back and then stared at the ground. Were they unhappy that he was here?

If he saw fae from a distance, he changed the direction he was walking. He didn’t want to bother anyone.

He ended up abovedeck and saw it was late. He walked to the railing – which Awan had called the gunwale – and leaned into it and stared down at the sea, and felt the shell in his pocket, which still felt like a shell.

It felt like an invasion of privacy to continue to see Eran’s memories like that. Seeing them once, because Eran had forced the curse to activate, that was different. But now his unconscious bringing it up seemed like he was just being…invasive. Like it wasn’t enough that he had to barge into Eran’s room with blankets, but now he had to sift through that horrid memory again, like it was his to relive.

It was obvious how much Eran loved and lived fire when Mosk dreamed like that. He woke feeling poisoned, unable to remember how much he was supposed to hate it until his own worst memories came back to him. The forest. Olphix. And then everything afterwards.

He felt haunted by it all. As though now that he could rest a bit more, his brain wouldn’t let him, and insisted on ruining even this.

He walked along the edge of the gunwale until he reached the steps that led up towards the captain’s cabin, the afterdeck and all the fancy housing at the stern of the ship. He sat down on the stairs and looked up at the tallest crow’s nest – partly hidden by sails – and knew there was a fae in there, looking out at the world.

It was cold, Mosk wasn’t really dressed for it. After a while the weather reminded him too much of the ice when it had killed Eran’s family. He got up and walked back towards the entrance that would lead him – eventually – to his room. Before he walked inside it, he looked around. He had no idea where Gwyn or Augus or Ash or Julvia were. Normally Eran would know those things, and Mosk would trust in Eran’s knowledge, but Eran wouldn’t go aboveboard…

Mosk didn’t like having to be the one to know things, and he didn’t like asking for information or looking for help. Even Awan approaching him made him tense. Why was Awan telling him so much about the ship? Did he expect Mosk to work on the ship?

Mosk didn’t want to work at all.

Once he was back in his room, he got up on the desk and sat crouched on it, staring at the bed. Since being on the ship, he’d had the strangest urge to climb things again. But there wasn’t much to climb in here before he hit the ceiling.

He thought about finding that long closet-corridor filled with blankets again to climb in there, but just thinking about it tired him out, so he eventually slid off the desk and stumbled back to bed, entering the blankets from the foot of the bed and curling up in the middle, so his head and feet couldn’t be seen. He wanted to be a warm seed in the earth. He wanted to be dormant, waiting for sunlight, but still so deeply asleep that he wasn’t even conscious.

Seeds never spoke to him when he was in the Aur forest. They hummed instead. Vibrations of energy on different wavelengths to each other, some clashing – those wouldn’t get along if they grew alongside one another – and some harmonising, like a background choir that buzzed at the same volume, only changing tone when a seed was about to spring forth and become a seedling.

He hummed quietly to himself, wondered what his tone would be if he was a seed.

It was just one of the many things he’d lost when Olphix and Davix had tortured him. He no longer heard that background hum, and the world was empty because of it. He knew there were seeds in the earth, but the song was gone.

No wonder so many other fae didn’t feel connected to their environment. If they couldn’t hear the song of it, what was the point?

*

He knew he was dreaming. It was strange for him to know it, but he just…knew.

He was surrounded by ice. It wasn’t just in front of him and behind him, but over him as well. He was _within_ it.

Tunnels had opened up all around him. As though it had melted from the inside. His breath fogged and misted in front of him and he felt horribly cold, rubbing briskly at his arms and hands. Maybe this was a side effect from letting himself get so cold on the ship. It was strange that those thoughts weren’t waking him up, normally they did.

He looked down and saw churned up rocks and sand beneath his feet. The ground was damp, and when he shoved his foot into it, he winced when he hit what must have been permafrost. The ice didn’t just stretch up over him, it stretched down too.

He turned a full circle, staring around him. The world was the brown and grey of the ground, and then it was the blue and aqua and white of the ice.

Knowing it was a dream, he walked over to the ice and touched his fingertips to it. He gasped at the cold that shoved into his bones. It wasn’t like normal ice at all. A freezing lance of pain all the way to his shoulder, a pounding in the side of his head. It _hurt._ But it didn’t capture him. It didn’t slide over him. It stayed static and Mosk’s hand when he drew it away was undamaged.

He felt more confident and decided to explore, wondering if this was somehow someone’s worst memory that he couldn’t recall, or if it was just his mind curious about the ice and finding it familiar. It was, after all, where his heartsong was meant to be.

He couldn’t feel it in the ice, the pain was too much to notice anything else, and he wrapped his arms around himself as he walked down a long tunnel. His feet crunched into the ground, and his toes were soon burning with cold, but when he looked down his feet were the same, they weren’t changing colour at all. He could feel the ice, but he wasn’t affected by the ice.

Soon, he saw dark shapes in the ice above him. Gloomy shadows that, as he looked up, he realised were people from the vague shapes of limbs and bits of clothing. He shuddered to see them suspended above him, like they were floating, except they never moved. As he continued to walk, the bodies came more often, closer to him, he saw faces frozen in pain. One was a very small child, about three years old, chubby arms outstretched and face screwed up in a scream, little nubby horns on her forehead.

Mosk stopped looking up, but soon the bodies were in the walls of ice either side of him too. More and more until the tunnel began to dim.

Eventually he reached a crossroads, thought he heard a humming. He frowned. Was it…a seed?

It wasn’t that kind of humming.

 _You could wake up,_ Mosk told himself.

He pushed at his consciousness and nothing happened. He frowned.

He decided to walk towards the humming. As he turned right, the tunnel lightened and broadened, the bodies fell back to a lighter density, and he thought the ice felt thinner here. It wasn’t as blue, didn’t seem as oppressive.

A cavern appeared, and he saw movement beyond the ice, shadows moving through it. Something or someone was there. He kept walking, his dream-self carrying him forward, even though he was suddenly terrified.

The humming was musical, sweetly melodic. It wasn’t a seed.

When he saw the flash of a robe, white and pale blue and dark blue diamonds stitched together, he stilled, then his knees buckled and he fell, hands falling limp to the ground.

The humming person paused and then Mosk whined low in his throat when they turned towards him, and Mosk could _see._

_Not a seed not a seed not a seed not-_

‘Oh, joyous and gleeful greetings!’ said Davix, beaming at him. ‘I seem somehow to have stumbled into this place and I am lost and it seems illogical but that is what I am!’

Most stared. His skin _crawled._

‘Who are you?’ Davix said, his voice bright. His eyes as bright as Mosk remembered, even brighter than Gwyn’s new azure shade. ‘I hadn’t expected to find anyone alive here, you can see that most are frozen, frigid beings, unable to move a muscle. But here you are. You seem frighteningly familiar. Do I know you?’

_Wake up, wake up, WAKE UP, WAKE UP!!!!_

‘I’m trying and terrible, a total pain, I’m sure, but…have you seen my brother?’

Davix paused. He looked around slowly, his face abruptly twisted. He touched his black hair lightly, as though he was unsure of it, then touched his cheek and looked down at his robe and held the side of it out in front of him. He stared at it for a long time as Mosk scratched furrows across his skin and bark, trying to wake himself up.

‘I can’t find him,’ Davix said to himself. ‘I can’t…quite- I can’t…remember…’

His hair shone different shades of blue as he turned to look around him again.

‘And I don’t understand why I’m doomed to this place. I love ice, inviting and awe-inspiring, but I don’t know why…’

He laughed softly, sadly, and then looked at Mosk in earnest appeal.

‘Stranger, I sorely beg of you, but have you seen my brother?’

*

Mosk woke with a start, screaming shortly into the mattress, kicking all of the blankets off him, clawing at his arms until he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling of his room in the ship, while the sea rocked him. He listened to his wheezing breaths and his eyes leaked tears and he frantically told himself it was just a dream.

It was just a dream.


	2. Flame Upon the Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *vibrates quietly* Ah Eran, brave boy, he tries so hard. Also because it's Eran, we finally get to see how most of the others are going!
> 
> Author's note: There is now a Gwyn/Augus alternative perspective/interlude set at the beginning of this chapter, [which can be found over here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20362345/chapters/49572251)

_Eran_

*

Eran moved through slow martial movements, the kind that could be turned into a dance at a moment’s notice. His legs were fine. They’d been fine for at least twenty four hours. With the healers that came to him after they’d spent time with Augus and Ash, truthfully, he’d been physically well enough to go aboveboard for two days.

The sea scared him. The tumult of his experiences leading up to seeing the sea for the first time, and then everything that happened afterwards in that battle, it all still scared him. He knew it was shameful, but he couldn’t seem to make himself go up. He’d hardly explored the ship. He hid – dizzy and nauseated – in his room, picking at candied ginger to help soothe his stomach, looking at the fish in the aquarium and feeling like the wooden walls of the room around him might burst in at any moment. He’d drown.

He stopped, turning to look at the new blankets on his bed. Mosk had brought them, hastily running away before Eran could say more than a thank you. Mosk bringing them had taken him aback, it was so thoughtful, it was something Mosk was literally incapable of only a few weeks ago. He _was_ healing, and with that, he was turning into someone soft and shy and nervous, who stared at Eran with something on his face that stirred strong, impulsive feelings in him.

He found himself shocked by how much he wanted to push Mosk. Was he just trying to distract himself from the ship? The sea? When he thought of Mosk, he thought of him back in the cave, how good he’d been, how shaky and wary. Eran wanted that so much it hurt to think about. A physical ache in his gut, or pressing his hips into the bed at night despite seasickness, and he laughed at himself weakly and found it hard to restrain himself whenever Mosk was around him.

It wasn’t good. Mosk was still healing, and Eran not only could be an overwhelming lover, he _wanted_ to be. He wanted to wipe Mosk out so that he couldn’t leave Eran’s bedroom. Wanted him to stay instead of always leaving. All that jittery energy called to Eran to contain and tame it.

Mosk still wore the rope on his wrist…

Eran stopped and looked up as though he could see through the ceiling to the deck above them. He could _feel_ how he was buried in the water. At least up there, he’d be able to _breathe,_ get some information. He’d heard bits and pieces from Mosk, but he was in the dark.

His father would tell him to overcome his fears by confronting them head on. Fear wasn’t a thing to be ashamed of unless one let it rule the self. As Eran was doing right now. His face burned and he pressed his lips together and walked over to the mirror bolted to the wall and stared at the eyeliner on his face. Stared at his amber eyes.

‘Just leave the room,’ Eran said. ‘That’s all. Just for today. Leave the room. You can come straight back.’

Even that made his heart pound. He had everything he needed in here. And the sea trows brought him food that he could burn or char. They replenished his ginger and they stared at his eyes like they were hypnotised before seeming to remember they had other things to do and running away.

He knew that Mosk was in the room opposite him and checked his hair before walking to the door and carefully opening it. He looked both ways down the corridor. He stood bracing himself on the doorway. Just standing with the door open made him feel uneasy.

Mosk’s door really was just opposite his.

He walked two steps across the corridor and knocked, waiting. He heard a questioning sound from within and eased open the handle, walking inside.

He stopped when he saw Mosk on the floor, leaning against a chest of drawers, knees drawn up to his chest. The blankets on his bed were ripped off, piled haphazardly on the floor.

‘Mosk? What happened?’

‘Eran?’ Mosk looked up with shock. ‘I thought you were a sea trow.’

‘What happened?’ Eran said, moving over and kneeling next to him.

‘No, nothing,’ Mosk said. He frowned at Eran, then pushed himself up against the drawers until he was leaning against them, his legs bent as he tried to stand. ‘Nothing. Bad dreams.’

Eran had been near Mosk for a lot of his sleep, and it was true, Mosk could have bad dreams, but…this seemed different.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No,’ Mosk said, pushing himself back onto the mattress. ‘It’s stupid. What are you even doing here?’

‘I wanted to see you.’

Mosk stilled, and then looked up at Eran quickly, his eyes widening. ‘Oh.’

‘I didn’t even know if you’d be here,’ Eran said, smiling quickly. ‘I just had to get out of my room. I can’t be that fire fae that just stays at the bottom of a ship the entire time, can I?’

‘It’s not the bottom,’ Mosk said. ‘Are you going to go aboveboard?’

‘Not today,’ Eran said. He sat down on the bed next to Mosk, and then not quite able to help himself, placed a firm hand on the back of Mosk’s neck, riding out the flinch. ‘It’s fine. You’re fine.’

‘Yeah,’ Mosk said, his voice rough. ‘I know.’

‘What did you dream about?’

‘The underworlds,’ Mosk said hesitantly.

Eran’s brow furrowed. He thought back to Augus using his compulsions all the way back in the Unseelie Court and his fingers tightened on the back of Mosk’s neck.

‘Do you dream about that a lot?’ He stared at him. ‘Do you dream about all of those things?’

Mosk rubbed at his face and then nodded. His movements were sluggish. He looked _tired._ Eran risked stroking his shoulders, and Mosk moved away from him, shaking his head and curling one of his legs beneath him.

‘It’s nothing though.’

‘It’s not nothing if you look like this.’

‘It _is_ nothing,’ Mosk said stubbornly. ‘So what if I have nightmares? You have nightmares too. I bet everyone has nightmares. Who wouldn’t? We’re all gonna die anyway.’

‘You’re tired,’ Eran said. ‘Have you been eating?’

Had Mosk been taking care of himself at all?

‘What?’ Mosk said, staring at him. ‘Of course I have! I don’t need _you_ to like…I don’t know, baby me or something.’

‘You need some sleep.’

‘I just got some sleep,’ Mosk said, his voice hardening. ‘What are you going to do? _Make_ me sleep? You can’t even go aboveboard! You can’t do anything! Even I can do more than you right now, and I-’

Mosk gasped when Eran moved quickly, dizziness forgotten, and grabbed Mosk’s wrist by the rope coiled around it. Eran shoved him back down onto the bed, holding him there. When Mosk’s other hand clawed at his shirt, Eran caught that too and pinned him down, Mosk’s back on the bed and his legs hanging off it, Eran standing over him.

‘You don’t get to talk to me like that anymore,’ Eran said, confused by the rush of heat inside of him that had nothing to do with anger. ‘You don’t get to abuse me because you don’t like something I’ve said to you out of _concern.’_

‘It’s not abuse if it’s _true,’_ Mosk spat, and Eran grit his teeth together.

A small part of him was annoyed at what Mosk had said, because it was true, Mosk was doing _better_ than him on this ship. But a larger part of him stared down at Mosk beneath him and thought that he knew plenty of ways to get Mosk to be quiet, and they were all ways that bit into him, demanding and hungry, wanting him to _act._

‘Don’t push me,’ Eran said finally, surprised at the smoke that came out of his mouth.

Was he that fired up?

Mosk’s torso twisted wildly, and Eran didn’t let him get away. He could smell the spike of fear and realised what was happening. ‘I wasn’t going to burn you.’

‘You were,’ Mosk gasped. ‘You were going to burn me!’

‘It happens sometimes when I’m upset,’ Eran said. ‘And it’s not happening anymore.’

‘I can say what I want to you! I’m allowed to say whatever I want.’

‘All right,’ Eran said, letting go of his wrists suddenly and stepping back, watching as Mosk froze mid-struggle, staring at Eran in shock. ‘You can say whatever you want, it’s true. But I’m not going to stay to hear it.’

‘What?’

‘You should get some sleep,’ Eran said as he walked towards the door.

‘I don’t _need_ it! Where are you going?’

‘Away.’

‘But I didn’t mean-’

‘Mosk,’ Eran said, turning to look at him and still surprised at how much he wanted to go back and… _do_ something, maybe something he’d regret later. ‘If you’re doing so much better than me, maybe you could stop treating me the way you do sometimes.’

‘But-’

‘I’ll come back some time soon. I really think you should get some sleep.’

As he walked away, he heard Mosk shouting, incensed: ‘I don’t _need_ it!’

Eran closed the door and leaned against it, sighing.

Well, at least it had helped him forget about the sea for a few minutes. He turned and looked down the corridor and decided to keep exploring.

*

He could hear the sea when he got close to the door that presumably led to it. He’d found his way by following his nose, instinct driving him up away from the oppressive water on every side of him, and then he trembled before a door and hated that it paralysed him still. He’d never experienced anything like it. The sea _gripped_ him in its fist, it promised smashing waves and an instant quenching of a fire that Eran had trusted in his entire life. It made him gasp for breath, feeling like his fire was already dying.

He felt sick all over again, his fingers resting on the rusted metal of the doorhandle and staring at a set of wind-chimes that hung just above him, shells clinking musically, like ceramics.

‘I can do this,’ Eran said to himself, even as his chest felt like it was being compressed. He sucked down a breath, another breath, and opened the door a crack.

The wind whipped it out of his grip, flinging it so that it slammed open, and Eran couldn’t even see the sea yet, but he could hear it, huge and broad. He knew they weren’t even near land anymore. He could feel it. The only land near them was all the way at the bottom of that crushing blue.

A fae walked past, stared at him and then kept on walking. Eran had no idea what kind of fae it was. He didn’t really know anyone. He hadn’t met Ondine. He’d seen her, but his memory was clouded in his true-form’s vision that saw heat signatures and knew her more as something bright yellow in a world of violet.

He slipped outside, calling his fire to himself, warming his body so thoroughly that he started to sweat from it. Bolstering his fire helped and he clung to the small cabin outpost and then forced the door closed behind him, fighting the wind. He stared at sails and masts and rigging and a huge deck that was designed for a metropolis of people.

The fae that had stared at him, walked past him again, narrowing her eyes. Eran wanted to ask if it was okay that he was even there, but she didn’t say a word, and Eran sagged back against the wood and thought that maybe this was enough. He couldn’t do anymore. He could _feel_ the waves smashing against the side of the boat, could smell the salt spray, and thought it was all water. It was all _water._

He’d thought he wouldn’t be scared of the sea. He’d never been scared of lakes or rivers, and while rain and humidity bothered him, it didn’t _scare_ him. This was something else. He pressed his hands to his chest, called fire to his hands, was glad for the fireproofing on the shirt he wore.

He heard wet footsteps and turned abruptly, saw a short, curvy woman, olive-skinned, with black eyes and long, tumbling hair. He recognised her. His memories told him who this was.  

‘Eran Iliakambar,’ Ondine said warmly. ‘Ships suck, don’t they? You’re not used to it yet, but you will be. Fire fae can do all right on the sea, I _promise,_ especially when they have the support of water fae. Did you know that most of us love fire fae? Probably not, right?’

She held out her hands, as though inviting Eran to put his palms in them, and he remembered that she would read his future.

‘I don’t want to know my future,’ he said abruptly.

‘Then I won’t tell you,’ Ondine said. ‘And it’s not fixed in stone. Especially when you walk with Gwyn ap Nudd and that Unseelie dryad. Come, it’s okay, you can step away from the wood. You’ll be fine.’

Eran realised that the fae who walked past him twice must have alerted someone. There was no other reason he could think for Ondine to be here.

He stared at her palms and the warm expression on her face. Her feet made water appear beneath them and he stared at that too. He pulled his hands away from himself, dispelling the fire in them. He placed them in Ondine’s palms and stared at her, flinching when a particularly rough wave hit the ship.

She winced with him. ‘It’s all right, really. This is a good, _solid_ ship. A lot of magic keeps her seafaring, and she’s special to me and my heart. When she’s above like this, she’ll do anything I want, including keep you safe.’

‘Above?’

‘Above,’ Ondine confirmed. ‘I sink her when it’s not necessary. She’s my home under the water and above it. The Mantissa.’

Ondine let go of one of his hands and Eran couldn’t tell if she’d read anything from him at all.

She led him away from the door, the wooden support, and then across the decking, and suddenly Eran could see the sea and he couldn’t _move._ He was aware enough to be embarrassed, aware enough to want to run back down to that room beneath the water and never see it again. Feeling it was better than seeing it at the same time.

Ondine stood a long time, then slid an easy arm around his waist.

‘Look at it,’ she said softly. ‘It’s unfamiliar now, but I’m going to tell you some familiar things. Firstly, the sea like this is a desert. There are oases that fish and fae cling to, but food can be hard to find, and the landscape ahead is sparse, isn’t it? The desert scares people too, doesn’t it? But if you learn it and respect it, the desert becomes a true love, and the sea is like that too. And there, listen to the waves, Eran. The sea has a rhythm to her, she breathes in and out, and she needs fire too.’

Eran shook his head. Ondine briefly leaned into him and then straightened again, pointing out at the waves. Her hair wrapped around him as the winds blew.

‘So many islands are born from volcanoes, you know that. Thermal springs give us the luxury of warmth. And it _is_ a luxury, when you’re a sea fae. And obviously fire fae on a ship is a bit of a novelty. What you’re feeling is the innate respect of fire when it meets the sea for the first time. I know it’s hard. But we will look after you, and you will be _fine.’_

‘You’re being so kind to me,’ Eran said, one of his hands opening and closing. His chest felt cold and he kept drawing more and more heat to himself. Saw the smoke he was exhaling. His lungs were so warm. He was drawing in so much air.

‘Well, I’d blame that on being Seelie, but we know that’s not quite what it used to be,’ Ondine said, laughing. ‘That’s just the fun of being me, I think. Now, I want you to take a few steps forward on your own.’

‘No,’ Eran said.

‘It’s okay,’ Ondine said, ‘but I still want you to do it. I saw you fighting on the shore. I’ve heard stories of how you’ve protected Mosk. Gwyn speaks highly of you. And this is something I know you can do. Just a few steps towards the gunwale.’

Eran looked down at Ondine, doubtful, and she stared up at him and nodded calmly, confidently. He didn’t want to disappoint her. She was the Captain of the ship. Of her _home._

He took a few steps, his legs feeling like they were made of lead. He wasn’t close enough to touch the gunwale yet, but still close enough to feel more spray than before. Ondine was right beside him, unbothered, and he knew there were fae all around them, also unbothered. Even _Mosk_ had experienced it. Eran forced himself to take deeper, slower breaths.

‘That’s it,’ Ondine said. ‘Think about it. There are millions of animals around us. There are sea fae all over the world. If the sea was only destructive, that couldn’t be true, could it? Think of how many fae the desert supports. How many glorious animals. We’d not have them, were it not for environments like this.’

Eran forced himself to nod and took a few more steps forward until he could cling to the gunwale, staring ahead at the crests of white on distant waves.

‘You’ll be our lucky flame upon the sea,’ Ondine said, grinning up at him. ‘Do you know how hard it is for us to get glass without fire fae? It’s going to be good for you to be here, Eran. The land isn’t safe right now. The sea has its politics, its woes, but the sea itself is safer. The ice doesn’t like it here.’

‘Oh,’ Eran said. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ondine said. ‘I don’t pretend to understand the ice.’

Eran just wanted a solution to it. He wanted it gone. He knew they were safe, but for how long? He looked down at his fingers where they gripped the wood. He’d killed a lot of fae and he didn’t know their names and he didn’t know how to remember them and he didn’t want them to stay faceless and meaningless but that’s…what they were. Another battle, and Eran was supposedly lucky to be alive, but what about the others?

‘I like you,’ Ondine sighed, laughing to herself. ‘Reading people’s futures makes it easy to decide if you like someone or not.’

‘Do you read their past too?’

‘I have to,’ Ondine said frankly. ‘It’s hard to explain. It all comes at once. You were so loved Eran, so beloved.’

‘And Mosk?’

‘I didn’t see anything,’ she said seriously. ‘Just black. It’s the same with the Unseelie King.’

Eran frowned, but Mosk had clearly been alive in his past, so the blackness obviously didn’t mean death. Maybe there were things that even Ondine wasn’t supposed to know. But why would that be?

‘Is there anything you’d like to do?’ Ondine said. ‘Anyone you’d like to see?’

‘I’d like to know where the others are,’ Eran said finally. ‘The boat- _ship,_ it’s huge. And I have no…bearings here. If you could- If it’s not a bother. I could ask someone else.’

‘I’m here to be your host,’ Ondine said, drawing him back away from the railing and holding his hand as she walked him down towards the back of the ship. He wobbled as he went up the steps, then paused, swallowing down nausea and reaching into his pants pocket for the candied ginger that was always there, cooking it slightly so that the sugar caramelised and the ginger crisped before eating it. Ondine waited, not commenting, until Eran was well enough to continue.

She drew him towards a huge abovedeck cabin, they walked through double doors and Eran began to get a sense of how truly spacious the ship was.

‘How does it even…float?’ Eran said. ‘Isn’t it too heavy?’

‘She’s not a normal ship, certainly,’ Ondine said. ‘At any time there are always twenty fae with water-manipulation powers keeping the ship buoyant. They deal with ballast by flushing water through the ship at all times, and can change the levels at will. This ship is _willed_ into seafaring existence. Her true nature is to lie below, a sleeping beast. But once awake, she sails well.’

‘So you normally live underwater?’

‘Yes,’ Ondine said. ‘I go above regularly because I enjoy it. But I live most comfortably beneath, in my true or hybrid form. Now, if you want to see the King, he should be done discussing strategy and will be eating lunch. Come along.’

‘But if he’s busy-’

‘You’re his ward, Eran, he should make time to see you. Now’s not the time to be shy! We’re all very forthright on the Mantissa, and I’ve heard you’re the same! Where’s that fire of yours? Don’t forget it!’

He walked down a corridor that passed a ballroom, a vaulted library and more. He stared in wonder, then found himself at a kitchen area where several fae were sitting. Gwyn was chatting to a fae with gull wings, in a language Eran had never heard. It was an intense discussion, but as soon as he noticed Eran he excused himself and smiled.

Eran thought his hair was more golden than before, his skin was tanned, and he’d changed so much since losing his light.

‘Eran! You’re aboveboard!’

_Why is he happy to see me?_

Gwyn grasped him by both shoulders, squeezing tight, and even without his light, Eran thought he radiated power. It was intimidating and Eran felt uncertain. He’d seen Gwyn in battle too. He’d taken orders from him. He’d killed fae for this man. Kabiri had bound them together and Eran still didn’t understand it.

‘Are you well?’

‘I’m healed,’ Eran said. ‘Are we…safe?’

‘For the time being,’ Gwyn said. ‘It looks like we’re going to hit our first barriers in the next few days. We’ve been having meetings to determine how they should go. It’s not the norm for an Unseelie King to travel on a predominantly Seelie vessel, nor is it the norm for that vessel to be the Mantissa.’

‘The dreaded cursed ship!’ Ondine said, then burst out laughing.

‘It’s cursed?’ Eran said, staring at her in alarm.

‘No, no, but it does have a _reputation.’_

‘It has a grand habit of finishing wars,’ Gwyn said. ‘There was a time when Ondine used to be more aggressively anti-war.’

‘Sometimes, Eran,’ Ondine said, smiling up at Gwyn, ‘those of us who don’t want war, decide that the best way to deal with that is to just _end_ it in an impartial manner.’

‘This is a warship?’

‘Yes,’ Ondine said. ‘And we are one of the strongest seagoing military vessels in existence. I have put a lot of time and thought into this ship, and there’s a reason people fear the Mantissa even though she hasn’t been seen for some thousands of years. Before you were a babe, Gwyn.’

‘Lludd used to tell Efnisien stories, and I would listen,’ Gwyn said, smiling a little.

‘The Mantissa hasn’t sailed for so long,’ Ondine said wistfully. ‘But I had a feeling you’d need her one day. How many favours do you owe me now?’

‘Let’s not,’ Gwyn said. ‘Anyway, Eran, let’s talk. I know you must be still finding your bearings after the battle. I have an office. Follow me. Do you need me for anything, Ondine?’

‘We have a meeting in two hours,’ Ondine said.

Gwyn rolled his eyes, but nodded, and then Ondine laughed and said:

‘I know exactly how you feel! It’s tedious, but we cannot go into these family-protected waters without a plan.’

Ondine drifted deeper into the room, greeting someone else, and Gwyn let go of Eran’s shoulders and walked out, Eran following him. He stared at the wet barnacles growing on the cornices, the bits of deep green weed pressed flat to them. When this was underwater, probably all kinds of animals lived here. Just like the fish behind the glass in his room. But it didn’t leak, and Ondine was right, it seemed to travel well.

Eran felt a web of magic as soon as he walked into Gwyn’s office and paused, looking back at the door, expecting to see glowing strands of something. He brushed at himself and Gwyn shook his head as he sat down.

‘It’s a form of stasis magic to stop items from going everywhere if the ship encounters rogue waves or similar,’ Gwyn said. ‘It’s all over the ship, but it’s particularly strong in the offices, storage, the kitchens and so on.’

Paperwork was stacked neatly, a fountain pen rested in a little shell holder beside a vial of ink that was blown with exquisite sensitivity to molten glass. Eran thought of Ondine saying that sea fae loved fire fae, and wondered if they needed anything from him. He wasn’t a glass blower, but he could make sheets of it. Maybe he could help.

‘Are we going to be here long?’ Eran said. ‘We’re not that far from the Seelie Court, are we?’

‘It’s complicated,’ Gwyn said, as Eran sat on one of the carved driftwood seats facing Gwyn’s table. ‘In seas clear of politics, we’d be there by now. But as it is, we’ve had to head south away from the coast into deep waters. Basically…’

Gwyn stood and pulled out a huge roll of paper, then walked to another table, this one large and flat, with no chairs around it. He unrolled the paper and it was a map of their coastline. But instead of showing significant land features, it showed coloured areas of the sea. The density of coloured areas around the coastline was huge. Hundreds of fragments of different colours, and as Eran walked closer, he realised it was different groups of people, ruled by different populations.

‘Everything blue-toned is House of Atros,’ Gwyn said, pointing at how many there were. ‘An Unseelie house that has gripes against the Seelie, and very much resents that Albion is now King of both the sea around here and the Seelie land, and as a result has made them enforce tolls of extortionate amounts at every boundary.’

‘That’s a lot of boundaries,’ Eran said, staring. The blue-toned fragments were _everywhere,_ it looked impossible to move more than five kilometres without finding another one. ‘So where are we?’

‘Here,’ Gwyn said, pointing far away from the coast to a pink-toned region. But all around it…

‘We’re surrounded by the House of Atros?’

‘Yes,’ Gwyn said.

‘But you’re the Unseelie King.’

‘I’m on a Seelie ship, captained by a famous Seelie fae, maintained by a mostly Seelie crew, and unfortunately, I used to be the Seelie King and Albion used to be on my Inner Court.’

‘Ah…’

‘We’re limited on funds,’ Gwyn said, staring at the map. ‘Ondine is rich and they know that, but she’s recently allocated a substantial amount elsewhere, which they don’t know. The Unseelie Court is still not terribly solvent. The House of Atros will likely try to leverage other things against us in their demands. Military might. Special sanctions for their tolls. Unseelie Court approvals. I don’t know. But it will make getting back to the coast difficult, and it will make getting _to_ the coast very difficult. They do not like to take allies, and they do not like Ondine or the Mantissa on principle.’

‘Let me guess,’ Eran said, staring at the map. ‘She’s finished a few wars that they were involved in?’

‘Yes,’ Gwyn said, smiling at Eran like he approved. Eran felt a flush of warmth and felt like the pressure in the room lessened when Gwyn looked back at the map again. ‘So we are taking our time. The ice isn’t threatening the sea. We need rest, and I need time to think of some strategies. So we may be here a while, Eran, your journey isn’t over yet. And I know that the sea must be discomfiting.’

Eran hoped that wasn’t some Kingly way of saying that he thought Eran was a coward for not coming aboveboard before now.

‘Not as bad as it is for Augus and Ash, I imagine,’ Eran said finally. ‘Are they…okay?’

Last he remembered… He knew from Mosk that they were on the ship, and being treated by healers, and that was it. Were they even awake?

Gwyn’s face turned troubled, he closed his eyes briefly.

‘You can see them,’ Gwyn said, his voice softer. ‘Ash is conscious and occasionally able to move around the ship. Augus is still bedridden, but also conscious. They have been taking saltvarra, a sea plant that helps protect against salt. But they need further measures to become more…functional. But not being able to feed properly- They will not recover adequately while on this ship. So we buy time for ourselves, but this hurts them too. They’re likely in the same room together. Ash keeps his brother company during the day.’

‘There’s nothing else we can do?’

‘No,’ Gwyn said. His voice had a terribly finality to it, and then he was silent for a long time. Eran thought of Augus arguing with Gwyn about losing his light. That it made him more reckless, or different, but Gwyn seemed like the same person. He was obviously worried, and Eran thought it was strange that he should stand there and feel sorry for the Unseelie King, who had betrayed them all.

Even if the circumstances were…somewhat understandable. Especially for an Unseelie fae.

‘I’d like to see them,’ Eran said. ‘And know where they are. Even though we’re all together, it feels like we’re not at the same time.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Gwyn said. ‘It’s why I want to introduce you. Then you can show Mosk.’

‘And Julvia?’

‘She’s found a room somewhere, but she has been aboveboard a great deal, especially at night. They are a lively bunch here, often holding dances and feasts, or concerts. Julvia is nearly always there. You can ask her where her room is if you attend. I’m sure the sea fae would very much appreciate a bonfire that resists salt water spray.’

‘Yes, okay,’ Eran said. That did sound interesting.

‘In the meantime, let me get you up to date with the lay of the…sea. This is not an area of my expertise, nor yours, but many minds can sometimes be useful when building strategies, and I won’t be overlooking wisdom no matter where it comes from.’

With that, Gwyn launched into a crash course on sea politics that Eran found so fascinating, he forgot to be intimidated by the sea and the King.

*

An hour later, Gwyn took him down another corridor until they reached a room with a single black door. In front of it was a table with a bucket of water on it, and facecloths. Gwyn picked one of them up, dipped it in the water and then ran it over his face and bare arms, indicating Eran should do the same.

‘It removes the excess salt,’ Gwyn said. ‘It’s not much, but until seahorse shifters come, saltvarra isn’t enough.’

Eran picked up the second cloth and washed his bare arms and face, making sure to get his ears and the back of his neck. He was careful of his eyes, hoping that leaving the eyeliner would be fine. He even ran the cloth over his hair.

After that, Gwyn knocked quietly and peered in. He and Augus spoke briefly in what must have been Welsh, and though Augus sounded tired through the small crack in the door, his voice wasn’t nearly as ruined as it had been just before the battle.

‘You can enter,’ Gwyn said, leaning back.

‘You’re not coming in too?’

‘No,’ Gwyn said. ‘I have too much to do. I’ll be with him later. It seems you all think I should be spending more time with him, but he’s very capable and also exhausted. I don’t want to tax him.’

Augus must have heard him, because he shot something back in Welsh, and Gwyn only smiled to himself and walked away.

Eran entered carefully, closing the door quickly behind him. He could already tell there was much less salt in here. He walked down some shallow steps into a room with two beds across from one another. Ash was in one, fast asleep, curly hair peeking above the blankets. Augus sat upright in the other, gesturing for Eran to use one of the chairs.

Augus was so much paler than usual. All his freckles stood out, the green of his eyes was feverish, and his lips looked chapped and cracked despite being covered with some kind of balm. He wore a long-sleeved green shirt of a material that Eran hadn’t seen him in before.

‘I’m sorry for what the sea must be doing to you,’ Eran said, as soon as he sat down. ‘But I’m glad to see you awake. I… I don’t remember very well but you-’

‘I collapsed during the battle,’ Augus said. His eyes were lidded as though he could fall asleep at any moment. He leaned heavily against the back of the bed. Eran thought that he might fall asleep in the middle of their conversation. ‘I knew I would. But I kept us all alive, didn’t I? They can’t say I’m only a bringer of death now. But, ah,’ Augus coughed lightly, ‘they will.’

Eran scooted a little closer. One of Augus’ hands lay limply on the bed, his claws looking ragged, unbuffed.

‘Can I do anything to help?’

Augus seemed to be thinking about it, but then he shook his head. He was silent for some time, his chest rising and falling slowly, shallowly. But he wasn’t coughing up blood. He seemed in relatively good spirits. Eran twisted to look at Ash. He wasn’t dozing. He was deeply asleep.

‘It caught up with him,’ Augus explained. ‘He withstood it well initially, but he’s as much a waterhorse as I am. And he over-exerted himself in other ways. Not all at once but…gradually, as is his way.’

‘Is he okay?’

‘Yes,’ Augus said. ‘As much as he can be. And you, Eran? May I check your meridians? I haven’t forgotten that the Nain Rouge skimmed some of your power.’

Eran _had_ forgotten, he held out his hand carefully, lowering it to the bed when he realised it was a strain for Augus to lift his arm. Augus turned Eran’s hand and placed his palm carefully over it, and Eran blinked when he felt an invisible coolness brush against his self, flinching.

‘It’s fine,’ Augus said, without looking at him, his eyes closing. ‘I won’t hurt you.’

‘I know,’ Eran said. ‘I don’t like the sea. And your energy is…watery.’

‘Yes,’ Augus said. ‘If it helps at all, I loathe the sea, and wish we were anywhere else, barring a couple of places I’d rather not revisit. Your fire is holding up well, your heartsong too. You are strong, Eran Iliakambar. I wasn’t sure of you at first, but you weren’t sure of us either.’

Augus withdrew his hand and his eyes slowly opened.

‘And how is Mosk? Have you taken him in hand?’

Eran had opened his mouth to say that Mosk was doing okay, until the second half of the sentence, and then he closed his mouth and stared at Augus. Did Augus mean…?

‘What-?’

‘Have you fucked him?’ Augus said, something impish curling at the sides of his lips. ‘Have you mastered him yet?’

‘I’m not talking to you about this.’

‘Why?’ Augus said frankly, his head tilting. ‘Do you not know who I am? What I used to do and be before I joined Gwyn’s Court? If you’re not going to talk to me about it, then _who?’_

‘No one?’ Eran said, surprised.

Augus’ smile was amused, he lifted his hand in a tired shrug. ‘Suit yourself. But you are new to this, I can tell, and you can hurt him because of it. And I am not going anywhere, and I’m bored. Let me meddle.’

‘In- With… How do you even _know-?’_

‘My dear boy, did you or did you not place a rope around his wrist – permanently, it looks like – to help give him something to control some of his more wayward urges? Really, Eran. Give us all some credit. Especially _me.’_

Eran sat very still. It wasn’t that he wasn’t curious about what Augus would have to say, it was only that he wasn’t accustomed to talking about these things with anyone. Sex was one thing, but he knew Augus wasn’t talking about just sex. It was everything else with Mosk. But Eran wasn’t like _Augus_ was he? He was just trying to help Mosk, and he enjoyed some aspects of it, but…

‘I don’t want to hurt him, though,’ Eran said quickly.

‘No?’ Augus said, eyebrows lifting. ‘You don’t sometimes want him under your control, writhing beneath you, and-’

‘By Kabiri, is this how you entertain yourself?’ Eran said, shocked. The worst part was he _had_ thought about those things. Though he usually thought about making Mosk writhe from too much pleasure, there was still an element of him wanting it to be _too much_ in the first place. Eran wanted to ply Mosk with gentleness, but other things as well.

‘Oh, yes, it is actually. Gwyn says I’m _incorrigible._ But also, you don’t have to want to hurt him. You only have to want to have control over him, to want to protect him in all things, but especially _that._ And you do, don’t you? For someone who you tortured initially, for someone who can be scathing in his abuse of you, there’s still that part of you that isn’t touched by it, because you know how much power you hold, don’t you?’

Eran was unable to speak. Augus nodded to himself.

‘It’s dangerous, Eran, if you don’t know what you’re doing. Sometimes it’s dangerous even when you do.’

‘We’re going slow,’ Eran said roughly.

‘Your charge is incredibly fucked up,’ Augus said, laughing to himself. ‘I have some experience in that too.’

‘Hey,’ Eran said, frowning.

‘What?’ Augus said innocently. ‘It’s true. Tell me it’s not. What are your priorities with him?’

‘Priorities?’

‘You’re helping him,’ Augus said. ‘So you must have an idea of _what_ you want to help with.’

‘That’s private,’ Eran said. ‘That’s not for me to tell.’

‘If you say so,’ Augus said. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ve seen then, shall I? And you can tell me if I’m accurate or not.’

Augus paused to cough quietly, and then he slowly reached for a glass of water, Eran rushing to hand it to him. Augus sipped slowly, staring ahead for a long moment, then sighed and let Eran place it back onto the table. Eran knew he must be so exhausted to not mind people helping him like this.

‘I noticed back at the Unseelie Court that he can’t handle gentle touch,’ Augus said, looking at Eran sidelong as he leaned heavily back against the headboard again. ‘He flinches away from it profoundly, suggesting abandonment and intimacy issues that have gone far beyond the norm and well into trauma. He’s averse. But he has no problems with being handled violently. So he’s been tortured enough that he’s gotten _used_ to it. Almost certainly some of that has come from his experiences _post_ Olphix and Davix as well, given how you found him. He uses sex as a coping mechanism and a tool to help him dissociate from his feelings, so he wants sex, but he doesn’t want to _feel_ anything around sex. How am I doing so far?’

Eran stared at him, and Augus nodded to himself.

‘Which means you’re stuck in a situation where he’s likely been begging you for sex. I know you didn’t give in at first, but I’m not sure where you’re both at with that now. And then, what else…? Well, we _all_ know he likes bondage. Suggests someone who – with his disposition – appreciates feeling contained by something, perhaps so he can rail against it. But then you have traps lying in wait. Presumably you want him to accept gentle touch. You’re good enough and Seelie enough to want that from him, aren’t you? But that could push him over the edge. I imagine you _want_ to fuck him, but there’s every chance he’ll use that to numb himself to you, and your connection will be damaged. Now, am I supposed to keep on with this? Or do you _understand_ that I _understand?’_

‘Have you told anyone?’ Eran said, his mouth dry.

‘No?’ Augus said, looking confused. ‘Why would I? It’s not anyone else’s business. But it could _become_ so, if you make too many missteps. Mosk is significant in the group, though I’m sure he thinks he isn’t.’

‘I’m going slow,’ Eran said.

‘How slow?’ Augus said sharply. ‘Explain it to me.’

‘But I-’

‘I won’t compel this out of you,’ Augus said. ‘But I want to be sure you’re behaving responsibly, and with all due respect, until you know what you’re doing, you won’t know exactly what that means.’

‘I’m not a fool!’ Eran said, his voice rising as anger sparked inside of him.

‘You’re barely into adulthood,’ Augus said mildly. ‘You’re a fool by default.’

Eran was shocked into silence. His hands curled on his legs. His father used to say something very similar to him on a regular basis.

‘It’s all right,’ Augus said, mollifying. ‘We’re all fools by default, Eran.’

His father used to say that too. Eran bowed his head, thinking about it. After a minute, he looked up and met Augus’ tired expression.

‘Are you sure?’ Eran said finally. ‘You look so tired.’

A rueful smile, and then Augus nodded. ‘I’m sure. I like problem solving these matters anyway, and it means you can always blame me if something doesn’t work out. There, wouldn’t that be nice for you?’

‘I don’t see me blaming you for anything going well for _me_ ,’ Eran said, ‘given who your partner is.’

Augus burst into laughter, which soon became heavier coughs. Eran picked up the water automatically, and Augus took it, nodding in thanks and drinking deeply.

‘Well,’ Augus said, his voice scratchy. ‘I can hold my own, but yes. That’s true. Can you get some of the saltvarra out of the drawer please? It will help. I think I’m due another dose.’

Eran opened the drawer and saw bundles of a dried herb in there, bleached to a pale green, with fur on the leaves. He handed Augus one of the bunches, and Augus snapped off several leaves and ate them immediately, before handing the bunch back to Eran. Augus sighed in relief, his body sagged. One of his hands came to rest on his chest.

‘I will like it when my lungs don’t ache like this. But the saltvarra helps. Now, talk to me, Eran. Let me feel like I can at least do _something_ while I’m on this forsaken ship, in this cursed environment.’

Eran laughed softly, then stared down at his hands. Maybe Mosk would hate him for this, but he did sort of want someone to talk to about it, and he knew that this was a rare opportunity. He called his fire to himself to bolster his confidence and began to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter, 'Pushed Over':
> 
> ‘It’s okay,’ Eran said again. ‘I’m not punishing you. Do you understand? You can answer my questions.’
> 
> ‘You could though,’ Mosk said. He looked away. ‘You have reasons.’ 
> 
> ‘Hey,’ Eran said. ‘No. We both know you can say mean things, but I’m not punishing you. I’m doing this to help. To give you something to focus on. Okay?’ 
> 
> Mosk tried to ignore the wave of annoyance that Eran was being so nice, but even though it spiked inside of him, he still hung onto Eran’s words. 
> 
> ‘Okay,’ Mosk rasped. 
> 
> ‘Good. Back to no speaking. Time for you to get undressed.’


	3. Pushed Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags: Forced Orgasm, Overstimulation, Bondage (okay we knew about that one though). Also, dubious consent is already a tag, but a heads up for this chapter. Baby Dom Eran is finally figuring out his best life.
> 
> *
> 
> The next two times I update this, I'll be in the UK, so my updating schedule may be a bit unpredictable depending on wifi! I'll be hoping to respond to comments and stuff as usual, but please forgive me if anything's delayed.

_Mosk_

*

He didn’t need sleep.

He was Court fae, he didn’t _need_ sleep. Mosk spun the shell in his pocket, then yanked it out and scrubbed all the moss off it, watching as it grew again.

‘Stop it,’ he hissed, throwing it against one of the few bare patches of wall in his room. It fell and clinked on the floorboards. He stared at it, listened to his breathing, yanked on the leading trail of rope at his wrist. ‘Stop it!’

If he didn’t sleep, he couldn’t have that dream again. If he didn’t have that dream again, everything would be fine.

Except that he was twitching at things that weren’t there, seeing that flash of white and blue diamonds in his vision and hearing that voice and feeling _touches_ on his skin. He gulped and stared around the room. He was on the Mantissa, he was in his room, he was _safe,_ it was a _dream._

The sea trows had made his bed the day before, and the blankets stayed smooth and pristine. Mosk wouldn’t even lie down on it. His body was beginning to ache from the amount of time he spent crouched on the floor, sitting on the bed or pacing. For the first time in over a year, he had nervous energy to burn and he hated it. He tapped on the tapestries. He opened drawers and slammed them shut. He shoved clothing along on coat hangers to hear the sound of it.

He was going mad. Eran was angry with him. Mosk sometimes made himself go aboveboard but being tired had made him clumsier, he’d fallen in front of some fae who had scooped him upright and sent him to get some rest.

‘The sea will not forgive you if you’re exhausted.’

He’d felt chastened. He stayed downstairs.

It was night now. He could feel the difference. He paced his room and didn’t look at the shell – it was growing moss even though he wasn’t touching it, he could see it in the corner of his eye, moss creeping across the wooden floorboards – and felt cold. He felt like he was walking through those tunnels of ice. He rubbed his arms and passed the hours fighting himself, fighting his body.

He wouldn’t sleep.

He didn’t need it.

*

The next morning he startled wildly at a knock on the door.

‘What?’ he called, suspicious.

Eran opened the door and walked in, looking calm, rested, his eyeliner making his eyes even brighter. Mosk automatically reached in his pocket, but he’d put the shell in a drawer the night before and thrown all the moss that had grown under his bed. It was only a handful, but it was enough to look strange.

‘By Kabiri,’ Eran said quietly, stopping when he saw Mosk’s face. ‘Have you slept at all?’

‘Yes,’ Mosk said. ‘Yeah. Of course.’

‘You’re lying,’ Eran said, staring at him. ‘Mosk, you need sleep.’

‘I don’t need it,’ Mosk said. ‘I’m fine.’

Eran looked at him for a long while, and Mosk felt agitated and turned away, shaking his head. He heard Eran walk to the bed and sit down on it, and Mosk envied his ability to seem so calm. Wasn’t he meant to be more upset? He was on the sea! He was surrounded by the sea!

‘How have you been?’ Eran said, his voice softer, kinder than before.

‘What, you’re not just going to tell me to sleep?’ Mosk snapped.

‘No. Talk to me. Do you want to sit down?’

‘No,’ Mosk said, his hands clenching. ‘Of course not. And I’m fine. We’re not fighting anything or anyone. Which I can’t do anyway. Because I’m so fucking useless. I don’t even know why Gwyn keeps me here. Like he thinks I’ve killed one Mage and, what, I can do it again? I shouldn’t even be here.’

‘I like that you’re here.’

Mosk stilled, his fingers twitching on the rope. He hadn’t even realised he’d grabbed it. Eran shouldn’t be allowed to say things like that. He sounded like a child. No one was meant to be that honest.

‘Why?’ Mosk said, turning to face him. ‘Because it’s nice having someone more pathetic than you on board?’

He waited for Eran to look disappointed and turn and walk away. That was what he did now. He left Mosk alone.

Eran did look disappointed, but he also tilted his head and watched Mosk like he was seeing something more than he usually did. But it was probably just that Mosk was tired. He didn’t need sleep. He could go longer without it. He’d heard stories of Court fae lasting weeks without sleep, sometimes more, and Mosk could do that. He was Court fae.

‘You’re overtired,’ Eran said finally, slowly. ‘You’re like a child that has refused sleep for so long they can’t do it anymore.’

_I won’t,_ Mosk thought mutinously.

‘But you’re not a child,’ Eran said.

‘I know,’ Mosk said. ‘I know that. Why are you telling me things I already know?’

Eran stood, staring at him, and then held out his hand.

‘Come here.’

Mosk was paralysed. Eran had used _that_ voice. His fingers twitched, he became acutely aware of the rope at his wrist. His breathing was shallow. It was terrible how much he wanted to listen. How much he wanted to do whatever Eran said, especially when he talked like that. When it wasn’t nice conversation or small talk that anyone could do.

‘No,’ Mosk said, his voice weak.

‘I didn’t tell you to disagree with me,’ Eran said patiently but firmly. ‘I told you to come here.’

Mosk’s mouth was open as he stared, and he took a hesitant step forwards, and another, until he was staring at Eran’s hand. He couldn’t lay his wrist or fingers in his palm. But he’d listened.

Eran giving him an order made it feel like there was something incomplete that he _had_ to finish to find equilibrium again. The longer he left it, the more it hung between them. So standing there now, having done what Eran had asked him to do, he felt some spell move through him. It took the slightest edge off the agitation for the first time in days.

‘Good,’ Eran said, taking Mosk firmly by the rope on his wrist. ‘Come on.’

Mosk was pulled from his room, across the corridor and into Eran’s room. His heart thumped.

‘Are you going to fuck me?’ Mosk said. ‘ _Finally?’_

‘No,’ Eran said.

_‘What?’_ Mosk yelled. ‘What? What the fuck is wrong with you? How useless are you? Does your cock not work? You’re fucking _impotent_. I knew it! I bet you’ve never satisfied anyone. I bet you can’t even- Do you just-?’

A hand gripping the back of his head, a palm over his mouth, and Mosk opened and bit down into flesh until Eran pushed his palm so firmly against Mosk’s face that he couldn’t move his jaws at all. Eran stared at him, something uncertain flickering across his face, before he seemed to find the same sureness of before.

‘You don’t decide what we’re going to do,’ Eran said, like he was explaining something to someone far younger. ‘Because you don’t make good decisions. Right now, you’re good at listening to me though, aren’t you?’

Eran used the grip on Mosk’s head and mouth to force his head into a nod, and Mosk stared in sheer outrage. He was shaking. He couldn’t tell if it was with anger or something else.

Then Eran leaned close to him and said – like he was sharing: ‘I know you can be good, Mosk.’

Mosk’s eyes closed helplessly.

_No. I can’t. I’m never good. None of this is good._

‘I know you want to be good,’ Eran said.

Mosk tried to shake his head, but Eran’s hands and fingers wouldn’t let him move. He made a sound in his throat, and it hummed against his mouth and Eran’s skin still between his teeth. How could someone who was as mean as he was, ever be good?

‘So I’m going to help you be good,’ Eran said.

Mosk’s eyes opened again and he stared ahead, feeling weak, rooted to the spot. Even when Eran had captured him, he hadn’t been like this. In those first weeks, he’d never been like this. He’d been mean, he’d been cruel and impetuous, he’d been impulsive and he’d been determined. But he’d never been like this.

But Mosk felt newly captured all the same.

‘I’m going to take my hands away,’ Eran said, ‘to get some things. I don’t want you to speak.’

Eran paused, then slowly eased his hands away. Mosk saw the deep indents of his teeth in Eran’s palm. If his feeding teeth worked properly, he could have sliced Eran’s skin right open, he could have drained his blood like it was sap. But they didn’t work properly and Eran wasn’t even bleeding.

Mosk watched as Eran opened a cupboard and came back with a linen bag. Inside were lengths of rope. Mosk took a sharp breath, looked down at the rope on his wrist. He was scared, but curious too. Eran wasn’t like the others who’d fucked him.

Mosk was angry at himself for standing there instead of arguing. He’d caved so quickly.  

Eran began methodically pulling out lengths of rope. He had more than last time. Had he found more on the ship? _When_ did he have time to do that?

‘Take your clothes off, please,’ Eran said, not looking at him.

Mosk’s hand ran up to his other elbow and he hung onto it, staring at the ropes. Eran turned to him and Mosk flinched, caught not doing what Eran had asked. He couldn’t meet his eyes for long and looked down instead. He pressed his lips together when Eran walked over to him.

Was he in trouble? Of course he was. Eran didn’t have to do this to be _nice._ And Mosk was mean to him, so-

He flinched hard when he felt the gentle touch on his shoulder, and then stilled when Eran grasped his shoulder with a firm grip instead.

‘It’s okay,’ Eran said. ‘Hey, look at me.’

Mosk did, searching his eyes.

‘It’s okay,’ Eran said again. ‘I’m not punishing you. Do you understand? You can answer my questions.’

‘You could though,’ Mosk said. He looked away. ‘You have reasons.’

‘Hey,’ Eran said. ‘No. We both know you can say mean things, but I’m not punishing you. I’m doing this to help. To give you something to focus on. Okay?’

Mosk tried to ignore the wave of annoyance that Eran was being so nice, but even though it spiked inside of him, he still hung onto Eran’s words.

‘Okay,’ Mosk rasped.

‘Good. Back to no speaking. Time for you to get undressed.’

Eran walked back to the bed and Mosk lowered his hands to his pants and undid them, taking them off. He’d never been so conscious of undressing before. When he’d done it for all the people who had fucked him, he sometimes started undressing before he even had a client. He didn’t care about his clothes, he didn’t care about where they fell and he didn’t care about being naked.

He didn’t understand how his life could have changed so much in such a short amount of time. Sliding off his pants, making sure the fabric didn’t catch on the bark on his shins, he felt exposed in a way he couldn’t tune out. As he took off his shirt, he felt like he should be covered in scars, but he had none. Olphix and Davix had kept healing him.

_Davix…_

Mosk felt the hair on his body stand on end.

_I’m cold._

He looked at Eran, who would be warm, too warm.

‘Very good,’ Eran said, and Mosk jolted as he walked over, a length of unlooped rope in his hands. It was pale, gleaming silvery bright. Eran reached for Mosk’s forearm like it belonged to him and bent it carefully as he moved it behind Mosk’s back.

Mosk was reminded so powerfully of the time they’d been in the verkhwin’s caves that his knees felt weak. He stared ahead, then turned until he could watch the fish swimming behind the glass. Eran was standing behind him. Taller than he was. His hands were so warm. His fingers were warm. He reached for Mosk’s other arm and took that too, and began looping the rope around his forearms with a steady, methodical grace.

Mosk wanted to speak. He wanted to break the silence. But Eran had told him not to speak, so Mosk had to hear the sound of rope sliding through Eran’s fingers, then feel it brush and dangle against his spine. He had to stay there and be painfully aware of his overtired body and keep telling himself that he didn’t need sleep. He didn’t need it. He was Court fae, and wasn’t that one of the privileges of the status? Maybe he hadn’t been drinking enough sap. Maybe that was the reason he was so tired.

His hips ached. The joints of his ankles, and then the balls of his feet, and his wrists. He heard the slip of rope as it looped over another part of his forearms, binding them together, and shivered.

It took another few minutes for Eran to be done, and then he hooked his broad hand around Mosk’s wrists and pushed him gently towards the bed. Mosk took a hesitant step forwards, then another, until he was getting onto it with his knees, shuffling forwards and feeling awkward and clumsy without his hands to balance or brace. Eran followed him, didn’t let go of his wrists, and the silence made him want to say something. Made him want to let Eran know that this didn’t mean anything. It didn’t _matter._

Was it just that Eran was bored?

_He’s probably bored. And you’ve told him a million times he can fuck you._

‘On your stomach,’ Eran said, moving one of the pillows forward. ‘Turn your head to the side.’

Eran’s other hand came around and rested flat on Mosk’s chest, a broad, hot weight that slowed his descent to the bed. Mosk’s heart raced. His breathing was shallow. And as he began to lie down properly, he made a short, strangled noise when Eran removed the hand from Mosk’s wrists and reached easily between his thighs. Grasping his cock and balls in a too-warm grip and pulling them down and back, exposing them so that they weren’t pressed between Mosk’s pelvis and the mattress.

‘Uh,’ Mosk said.

‘Quiet,’ Eran said.

_But…_

Eran shifted, picking up more rope, and then he turned on the bed and bent Mosk’s leg so he could begin looping it around his ankle.

Mosk’s breath hitched. He opened his mouth to say something, to protest, and then closed it again. When Eran tied off the rope and attached it to one corner of the bed, forcing Mosk’s leg to spread, he shuddered. It wasn’t the same position he’d been tied in by Olphix and Davix, not at all, but it was still…

His forearms worked in the ropes, his shoulders, and then his fingers splayed and shook when Eran turned to tie his other ankle.

_But it’s not the same._

Did it matter? He remembered what it was like to have ropes tied around his ankles. It was so different to the rope around his forearms. The rope around his ankles meant he was _trapped._ Meant Mages would come. His chest locked up and he stared blankly ahead, not seeing anything at all. He froze for so long that he didn’t realise Eran had stopped until he felt fingers at his forearms and flinched.

‘Mosk?’

Mosk made an absent sound of acknowledgement, then abruptly realised there was no rope around his right ankle at all. He flexed it, shifted his bent leg.

Had Eran stopped? He twisted awkwardly to look, and Eran was staring at him, still holding loose silvery rope in his hands. Amber eyes stared back at him, mouth tense, jaw tight. Had Mosk ruined it? Would Eran stop now that he couldn’t do what he wanted to do? Mosk hadn’t even realised he’d lost track of what was happening.

‘You can talk,’ Eran said, and he seemed to blink some of the fear out of his eyes. He carefully coiled the rope and then placed it to the side of the bed. ‘I’m not going to tie your other ankle.’

‘I don’t care,’ Mosk said, but he didn’t look away, either. Eran made a face that Mosk didn’t know how to interpret at all, but he didn’t look scared anymore.

‘Can you tell me when you have problems with things?’ Eran said, his voice finding its way again, not tentative like before when he’d called Mosk’s name.

Mosk knew what he was asking and shifted so that he could stare outwards again, his chest resting against the bed. Eran was asking if Mosk could say that he didn’t want his other ankle tied. Mosk didn’t even know if he wanted _both_ ankles tied. He didn’t know if he wanted this to happen at all. Everything in his life ripped him between opposing forces that he couldn’t reconcile. He could tell Eran that he was curious and it would be true. He could tell him he was scared and it would be true. He could say he was dreading it and hated everything and wanted to know more and would demand more and it would all be true.

The only unwavering thing that remained in the face of all that, was that he hated himself for it. For who he’d become.

‘Fuck you,’ Mosk said.

‘That’s a no,’ Eran muttered to himself, and then he made a sound that could have been an aborted laugh.

Palms landed flat and firm on Mosk’s lower back and he scrunched his face up, and then turned it into the pillow. He could feel Eran kneeling between his legs. His hands weren’t burning him, and the touch wasn’t too soft, but it was still overwhelming. Fingertips bent and dug into his skin, stretching it. Eran’s thumbs scraped outwards and then inwards again.

Eran could fuck him, if he wanted to. But apparently he didn’t.

What was he even going to do?

Mosk gasped noiselessly as Eran began pushing the heels of his palms methodically into Mosk’s skin. Starting at his lower back and moving up, he used warm, dry motions that forced Mosk’s muscles to move, forced his ribs to shift, forced his vertebrae to spread. Eran’s hands moved out until he could do the same to Mosk’s flanks, grasping at skin and pulling, so that it was never quite comfortable. Mosk shuddered, wiggled a little, and then had to turn his face to the side to suck down a deep breath.

‘What are you doing?’ Mosk said, his voice cracking.

‘You’re tense,’ Eran said.

Mosk pressed his tongue to the ridge of his front teeth and then his eyes closed when Eran just stretched Mosk’s muscles like he didn’t care about the skin above them. It ached. It was warming him. For a moment, he had the horrible thought that Eran was pushing heat _into_ him, but he couldn’t do that, could he? Because Mosk would hate it. That couldn’t have been what Eran was doing, because Mosk would hate it, and it wouldn’t relax him, and this was…

It wasn’t exactly relaxing, but his lower back felt looser than it had in a while.

‘By Kabiri,’ Eran breathed to himself. ‘You really are.’

‘What?’

Knuckles dug in just above the dip that would lead down to his ass, Mosk tilted his hips up and Eran ignored the invitation. Instead, those knuckles moved along the ridges of Mosk’s hips, and suddenly the dull ache became a wave of pain and he made a strangled noise as Eran’s hands stilled.

‘Okay,’ Eran said, his voice deeper than before, stronger. He shifted his hands until it wasn’t knuckles, but the broad flat of his hot thumbs just pressing down and out, dragging over that crest of pain as Mosk’s face screwed up and he breathed through it. It took only two minutes before Mosk realised he was breathing easier. That the pain was less. A lot less. His hips slumped back into the bed, his knees sliding back, his bent, untied leg falling down to the mattress with a thump.

‘Fuck me,’ Mosk murmured.

‘No,’ Eran said, even as he grabbed handfuls of Mosk’s ass cheeks and just moulded them to his palms. Mosk had been touched that hungrily before. By _hundreds_ of people.

‘Fuck me,’ Mosk said, his voice thin.

‘No,’ Eran said, clearing his throat, but digging his fingers in deep, the massaging motions now feeling less about massage and more about _want._ Mosk knew he wanted to. He pushed his hips up again, and Eran shoved him back down, pressing his ass cheeks together.

Mosk’s breath caught.

Eran’s hands continued down, taking up handfuls of his thighs, digging his fingers into the tender crease between his ass and upper thigh. Mosk squirmed, curling around, looking at Eran. But Eran wasn’t looking at him, instead he stared down avidly, only looking up after resting his fists in the hollows of Mosk’s knees.

Mosk wanted to ask him what he was doing, but he’d done that already. He wanted to tell Eran to fuck him, but Eran wouldn’t. What did that leave? He had permission to talk now, but he didn’t want to ruin anything. His heart raced, he was on the edge of some precipice with no name. Eran could have anyone on this ship.

‘You know,’ Mosk said, seizing at it. ‘You could fuck anyone on this ship. You don’t have to waste your time doing shit like this.’

Eran blinked and Mosk couldn’t read his expression.

‘It’s generous of you to think that,’ Eran said finally, an odd tone in his voice, ‘but I’m still choosing to be here with you.’

‘What the fuck is _wrong_ with-’

Eran reared up over him so quickly that the hand was over his mouth before he could finish speaking. Eran’s palm was so warm that Mosk tried to back away from it, but Eran’s other arm came and pushed down behind Mosk’s shoulders so that he couldn’t move.

‘ _Stop_ it,’ Eran said. ‘Insult yourself as much as you want. Don’t make me a part of it.’

Mosk’s eyes rolled sidelong but he could only see a hint of amber. He couldn’t see Eran’s face properly at all. He was angry, he opened his mouth to bite, and Eran’s grip became bruising, pushing so hard that Mosk couldn’t open his mouth any further. He whimpered, then felt strangely settled, and his eyes fluttered shut.

_Let him do what he wants. Maybe he’ll even like it._

‘You still with me?’ Eran said.

Mosk made a faint noise that hummed against Eran’s palm.

Eran carefully moved his hand away, then coasted his fingers over Mosk’s hair. Mosk felt too dazed to do much about it. But on the third, slower pass, his shoulders hunched up, and Eran made a sound of acknowledgement and stopped, reaching down and squeezing his upper arm instead. But Mosk still felt the impression of that palm stroking over the top of his head for a long time, even as Eran moved back down his body.

‘Good,’ Eran said softly, almost like he was talking to himself. ‘You’re being good, Mosk.’

Mosk didn’t dare reply. The skin around his jaw and mouth still felt sore. He could feel the lingering warmth of Eran’s skin.

Eran went back to massaging him, working on his thighs and calves, making muscles stretch just by pushing in hard enough and then pulling out until the muscles had no choice. Then Eran reached around to the front of Mosk’s shins and ran warm hands over the bark, and Mosk couldn’t feel it properly, but it made him more aware of how possessive Eran was being. He’d never been bold like this before. In Oengus’ tower, it had been detached and fast and strange. In the verkhwin’s lair, it had been intense, but Eran had hardly touched him aside from the blowjob. The ropes had touched him more.

Eran’s hands were digging into the spaces around the bound ankle. Mosk jerked his leg reflexively, felt the thud of it in the bed. Eran didn’t stop. He didn’t ask if it was okay.

His growing confidence was terrifying.

‘Eran,’ he asked, his voice different, he didn’t know himself. ‘What are you doing?’

‘What I want,’ Eran said. ‘But you like that, don’t you?’

Mosk’s teeth scraped over the sensitive skin of his tongue, his lower lip. He didn’t know what to say.

‘Don’t you?’ Eran prompted.

‘I hate you,’ Mosk said, though there was no venom in his tone. He didn’t like this game. What if he said he liked it, and then he hated it, and Eran told him that he only continued because Mosk said he _liked_ it? He couldn’t- He wasn’t going to say he liked it.

‘It’s okay, Mosk,’ Eran said, a smile in his voice, and Mosk kicked out with his free leg, trying to make reflexive, irritated contact. Eran caught him by the middle of his foot, then dug his thumb down into the arch of it, and Mosk trembled and fell still.

When Eran stretched over him, he expected a hand over his mouth again, but instead he watched as Eran opened a drawer and brought out a corked glass vial filled with a clear liquid. He stared, and then blinked.

‘You’re going to fuck me?’

‘No,’ Eran said.

‘But then- Why do you have-?’

Of course he recognised it. They didn’t always give him the luxury of it, all those faceless fae, but he was familiar with all the types of lubricant people might use. He was most familiar with spit, and a little familiar with blood, but sometimes…it was this.

‘Sea trows can get anything,’ Eran said.

‘They listen to you?’ Mosk said, feeling breathless as Eran settled back between his legs again. What was he even going to do?

‘They don’t listen to you?’ Eran said, sounding surprised. ‘They run away from me sometimes, but they bring me lots of things if I ask.’

The sound of a cork being levered out, and Mosk turned his face into the mattress and stared into dimness and could hardly breathe. What was Eran going to do? Maybe he was lying, and he was going to fuck him, and he didn’t want to get Mosk’s hopes up. Maybe he was going to-

Warm, slippery fingers traced down between his ass cheeks and Mosk grunted, pressing his forehead down into the pillow. The lubricant was already warm. Eran didn’t have to do anything special to make it that way. He could make it as warm as he wanted.

Belatedly, he realised he was starting to get aroused. It was a strange feeling, he wasn’t used to it. Uncomfortable too, with his cock pointing down between his legs, trapped in a direction he wasn’t accustomed to. He’d almost never gotten hard when they’d fucked him. And when they made him get hard, even when they made him come, he’d hardly noticed. It was as distant and unimportant as the build up to a sneeze.

This made him feel like he couldn’t move. It had nothing to do with the ropes anymore. Eran’s fingers were- Did he even _like_ it? What if he didn’t like it? What if he-?

Eran’s other hand rested on his back, just below his tied forearms. He must have knelt up to apply so much pressure, and then Mosk tensed when a finger slid into him.

A long time.

It had been a long time.

The last time was Summervale. All of that was a fog. He didn’t quite remember. This was nothing like that. He couldn’t breathe. He kept taking short bursts of breath, one after another, until his throat was cold.

‘Mosk,’ Eran said firmly. ‘ _Breathe.’_

‘I’m _fine,’_ Mosk exclaimed. He felt how he clenched around Eran’s finger and squeezed his eyes shut because Eran would notice everything. But Eran’s finger was _inside_ him, and it didn’t feel distant at all. It felt like it reached far too deeply inside of him, which…it couldn’t, but Mosk felt it everywhere. Resting and warm.

‘Come on,’ Eran said. ‘Try taking a deeper breath for me, you want to be good for me don’t you?’

Mosk made a fractious, irritated sound, and then sucked in a deeper breath automatically. No, he didn’t want to be good for Eran, he was just breathing deeper because…because he had to. Because he hadn’t been breathing deeply enough.

A strangled noise as Eran withdrew his finger and pushed it back in again. He squirmed, legs rocking on the bed.

_What are you doing?_

But he knew.

He didn’t really understand the point of it, if Eran didn’t want to fuck him. It just felt odd. And as Eran started up a more regular rhythm, Mosk pulled at the rope around his forearm and wrists and tried to remember to take deeper breaths. After a few minutes of it, the sensation settled, felt like an internal massage, and Eran moved up and over him so that Mosk could feel his chest brush against his bound fingers. His head near Mosk’s head.

‘You’re being so good for me,’ Eran said, his voice low. ‘Thank you.’

‘Shut _up,’_ Mosk managed, turning his head to the side. ‘I’m not doing _anything_ for you.’

Eran’s finger curled inside of him, and Mosk felt a strange, low, leaping sensation. It was tight, deep, and pulsed outwards to his cock. He jolted when Eran did it again.

‘Good,’ Eran said. ‘Take a deeper breath for me, Mosk.’

‘No,’ Mosk said, his voice small.

‘Go on.’

That finger moving inside of him, curling down regularly, and that leaping sensation turned into a heavy thrum in his hips. Alarm wound through him. It was like the blowjob, he could feel his own arousal like a sharp, invasive thing. Eran’s finger was inside of him, making that happen.

‘Take a deeper breath for me.’

‘No,’ Mosk whispered.

Eran pressed closer, his lips against the side of Mosk’s face.

‘Mosk,’ Eran said, and Mosk bit down on the sound he wanted to make. He was so tense, but Eran’s finger was so wet it just glided inside of him. ‘Go on.’

Mosk distantly heard himself gasping shallowly, and then heard some pleased sound as Eran pulled his finger back out and slid in with two. Maybe it was that he’d healed more. Maybe it was because he was drinking sap again. But he’d never felt like this. Eran kept needling at him, with his fingers, his voice, telling him to breathe deeper.

Mosk tried, a reflexive breath that caught and died in his throat as Eran began to curl his fingers again.

‘Good try,’ Eran said. ‘Do it again.’

A weak noise, Mosk’s arms straining at the ropes, and he heard himself whining through his nose as he did it again. Was he really that hard already? He could feel his cock, uncomfortable against the mattress, pushing down like it wanted to rise up, but it couldn’t because of the way Eran had placed it.

‘One more,’ Eran said.

Mosk sobbed and took a deeper breath, another, breathing out in a long _‘ha’_ as the sensations turned brighter.

‘Good,’ Eran whispered against his skin. ‘That’s good, Mosk.’

There was no way he could handle this. No way could he cope with whatever Eran wanted. He rubbed his face against the pillow, and Eran’s fingers worked inside of him and they were so warm, he could feel how much warmer they were than his entire body. He was supposed to be terrified, and he _was,_ a little, but it wasn’t enough to stop everything else.

Eran moved back again, and it was almost a relief. But the break from feeling crowded and overwhelmed lasted only seconds, before Eran slid the fingers of his other hand beneath Mosk’s cock and began jacking him off.

His lower back jerked, his leg tried to bend, a thump sounding as the rope pulled taut. Eran’s fingers thrust into him with a rhythmic push that rolled Mosk’s hips into the bed, and Eran’s other hand took care of the rest, turning his world to heat.

‘I can’t,’ Mosk murmured, barely hearing himself. ‘I don’t…’

‘All you need to do is breathe,’ Eran said.

If only that were true. He somehow had to contain all of it. He could feel it leaping to the ends of his fingertips and toes, could feel it sending vines through his arteries, pooling like thick flowers in his mouth. He felt green and golden, sun-soaked like leaves turning their trembling selves skywards. He was flooded.

He wasn’t going to last.

The lust and pleasure peaked into something so strong he felt like he’d blacked out. He shook violently, heard nothing at all except his heart, felt the locking down of muscles at his pelvis as they seized, his cock pulsing in Eran’s hand. Eran’s fingers inside of him pulsing down too fast and too hard into his prostate, pushing him further when he was already too far.

He didn’t know how long it all lasted for, everything turning blurry – vision, time, sensation, sound.

He rolled from the height of it down into a lax pleasure, and then rolled a bit further into a distant discomfort, and he groaned softly, hips shifting to escape…to escape…

Eran’s fingers were still moving inside of him, even though they’d slowed on his cock.

Mosk made a questioning noise, unable to manage a word, still catching his breath.

‘It’s okay,’ Eran said, his voice soothing.

His fingers kept thrusting inside of Mosk’s ass. His hand kept running up and down Mosk’s cock, thankfully not doing too much to the overstimulated head, though it wasn’t much of a consolation. Mosk shook and his brow furrowed and he thought that every other time, hadn’t Eran stopped?

‘Eran?’ Mosk pleaded.

‘It’s going to be okay,’ Eran said. ‘You’re going to come one more time.’

Mosk forced his eyes open and then processed the words and twisted as quickly as his tired body would let him. He blinked down at Eran, and then his head bent back as Eran’s fingertips glanced over his prostate. It felt like an ache, a bruise, but _not_ like lust.

‘No,’ Mosk said, scared. ‘No.’

‘Let’s just see if it’s possible.’

‘Eran,’ Mosk gasped. ‘Just fuck me.’

He tried to arch and shift his hips away from Eran’s hands, but with his leg tied, he couldn’t. He yanked on it a few times, and Eran hummed in a kind of disapproving way that made Mosk fall still.

‘Just fuck me,’ Mosk said.

He _wanted_ it, at this point. Even if it wouldn’t feel good, why did that matter? It wouldn’t feel as intense as what Eran was doing now. And Eran would get to feel good. It’s what _everyone_ did. It’s what his ass was good for. As if he hadn’t heard that a thousand times. More than a thousand.

‘Eran!’

‘No,’ Eran said, and Mosk growled, clenching his ass, trying to stop Eran’s fingers.

‘Fuck me!’

‘No.’

Was he so repulsive? Was it so awful? Was Eran just doing this as a _favour?_ The idea was unbearable. He twisted so wildly that Eran swore and let go of his cock, and then grasped his roped forearms and pushed him down into the bed, stopping the worst of his struggles.

‘Why won’t you fuck me?!’ Mosk cried out. ‘Everyone else has!’

Eran’s fingers stilled inside of him, and Mosk listened to himself gasping, then realised he could hear Eran breathing too. Not as laboured but…still there.

‘That’s why,’ Eran said, sounding raw. ‘That’s why.’

Their breaths were both ragged, and Mosk shook his head when Eran let go of his forearms and stroked his shoulder. It was gentle. It was too _gentle._

‘Stop it,’ Mosk managed. ‘Stop.’

‘No,’ Eran said. ‘And I will fuck you. One day.’

_‘When?’_

‘I don’t know,’ Eran said, and then he bent down and carefully placed his teeth over Mosk’s splayed index finger. His mouth was so warm that Mosk stilled, his eyes widening. Was he being burned? Was he? It stung.

‘Your mouth…’

Eran’s tongue pressing against him, and then his fingers started thrusting again, slower than before, and Mosk’s body arched as he tried to understand what was happening. People _stopped_ at some point. They didn’t keep going, not like this. He’d had a few fae who took a long time to come, but this was different.

‘Eran, I can’t…’

‘We’re just going to try.’

_‘Fuck,’_ he whispered.

‘It’s okay,’ Eran said, even though nothing he was doing was comforting, not even the way he’d bent down and was now sucking hard on Mosk’s finger. ‘Just leave it to me, Mosk. You don’t have to do anything. You’ve been pushing yourself really hard lately, right? You even got me those blankets.’

_No,_ Mosk thought, feeling like he’d been gutted. _Don’t bring that up now._

It hurt, somehow, the way Eran acknowledged these things. Like they were worth acknowledging. He couldn’t tell if he was being mocked, or if it was something else, but all of the options pricked him until he felt like he might bleed.

‘You need rest,’ Eran said, his voice gusting over Mosk’s wet, spit-slick fingers.

No, he didn’t need rest, did he? But he was so tired. Eran wasn’t letting him relax.

Eran’s other hand moved from Mosk’s shoulder back down to his cock, and Mosk yelped when the contact resumed. All he could do was writhe then, as Eran’s fingers roughly moved inside of him, his fingers not letting his cock go fully soft. It was an agony of sensation, a new kind of torture. He bit into one of Eran’s pillows and keened.

The words Eran spoke were meant to be comforting, but they were all a low, gentle taunt as Eran didn’t once stop. He prodded Mosk back towards a deep, dark well of arousal that felt far clingier than before, a syrupy sensation that moved like oil. His breaths were strong pulls for cold air, but nothing balanced out the heat inside of him, around him. He didn’t bother opening his eyes. He didn’t bother with his hands or his feet. The stretch in his pelvis of his hard cock being pulled down, jacked with a methodical lack of mercy, made him feel pulled tight all over.

He knew a lot of time passed. Had no idea how a fire fae could be so _patient_.

The second orgasm built slowly, back and forth, teasing at him. Sometimes it seemed to be there on the horizon, and other times he thought he’d never come again. His body wavered between pain, intense lust, and a pleasure that was almost sweet and lazy. He buffeted around his own nerves, Eran’s actions, and lost sight of himself and whether he wanted it or not, whether he wanted rest or not. He was exhausted and Eran was relentless.

He felt the profound rocking of the ship all around him. Slow, deep things, the craft too large to respond to every wave. It was like the pulsing inside of him.

His hips thrust weakly down into Eran’s hand, whimpers in his throat and a tightness in his whole torso.

‘Please,’ he mouthed into the pillow. _‘Please.’_

‘I know,’ Eran crooned. ‘It must be a lot. Have you ever experienced anything like this? It’s hard to believe you haven’t. But I don’t know how to believe anything else, with the way you’re being. You’re so beautiful.’

‘No,’ Mosk choked.

‘Yes,’ Eran breathed. ‘You are. By Kabiri, like nothing and no one else I’ve ever seen.’

Fuck. He was going to come. His back arched up and then dipped down, instinctively trying to grind his cock into friction even though he couldn’t get it anywhere but Eran’s hand. He was sweating all over, felt like the energy in his body was draining between his legs, and he wailed when Eran pushed down into his prostate and then strummed his fingers, one after the other.

Too much, _too much!_

On a hoarse shout, twisting to his side to escape the sensations, his hips jolted forwards and he began to come a second time. It blew through him, wiped out his thoughts, left him unable to do anything except strain against the sharpness of it. And Eran was still stroking him through it and saying comforting things and it all washed over him, a terrifying warmth.

This time, when he slumped back to the bed, Eran left his cock alone, but left his fingers inside of him. Mosk moaned weakly, moaned again, and then realised he was too wiped out to talk. To move.

His free leg bent a little, but all his muscles hurt. His breathing deepened and slowed. Eran told him it was okay, so maybe it was okay.

He’d just sleep…

He’d just sleep, for a little while.

*

Every exhale misted in front of him. He stood in a cold, icy space, surrounded by the plague of ice, but his body still felt warm. He scratched himself, pinched the inside of his wrists and his forearms.

‘No,’ he whispered. _‘No.’_

_Please, not again._

He flinched and stumbled quickly backwards when he heard a scrape in the dirt. His back slammed into ice that was so cold it stole his breath, seized the mobility from his muscles and spine.

Davix’s black eyebrows had lifted to see him, his head tilted.

‘You vanished last time, but you’re visiting me once more? Curious.’

‘I don’t want to be here,’ Mosk said, edging away. He looked up, and in the ceiling of ice above him, he saw the bodies of strangers. Dark, blobby shadows. Bruises in the cold. ‘How are you alive? _How?!’_

A long silence, and Mosk’s breath fogged in front of his eyes as he watched Davix stare down at the ground, then pluck at his Mage robes.

‘A misnomer,’ Davix said. ‘A malignant untruth. Marry, though I wish I lived and loved as I once did, I no longer lead that life. I suppose I am a spectre. A ghost. Have you seen my brother?’

Mosk stared at him. He stepped away from the ice and wrapped his arms around himself, his heart pounding hard. He felt so ill. He remembered what it was like to have Davix’s energy inside of him, turning his entire fundamental self inside out. Remembered what he’d lost that day, when he thought he couldn’t possibly lose anything more.

‘Do you know who I am?’ Mosk said, his voice shaking.

_He lies. Don’t believe him._

‘No,’ Davix said, smiling a little. ‘My perception of the past, it’s a puzzle. I can’t see far at all. Nothing has returned to me, and I’m hardly here.’

‘Can you do magic?’

‘That’s the thing, verily,’ Davix said, laughing, gesturing to his robe. ‘Why am I wearing this? I cannot even coax the ice to inch upon my hands. I have no powers here, and perhaps… No, no, I had them once. I _had_ them.’

Davix turned away and shook his head, then turned back, his eyebrows furrowed. He looked so _young._

‘He would know?’ Davix said. ‘My brother. Have you seen him?’

‘No,’ Mosk said roughly. ‘Does he know you’re here?’

Davix blinked like he hadn’t expected that question. He looked around like he thought Olphix might be there already, and Mosk’s head whipped around as he looked too. But there were only the bodies in the ice, the walls of it, the cold churned up ground beneath them. When Davix turned back to him, he looked lost.

‘If he knew,’ Davix said, ‘I believe he’d be here. So could you tell him for me?’

_No._

Mosk slowly shook his head, then backed away.

_Please wake up._

‘You aren’t able to assist me?’ Davix said. ‘Or are you unwilling?’

Mosk dug the nails of his fingers into his palms.

‘You are unwilling?’ Davix said, like he didn’t quite believe it. Mosk expected his gaze to turn dark, but instead, Davix only walked a few steps away, like he’d dismissed Mosk entirely. ‘But I have already tried almost everything, and even then…’

He was talking to himself, and Mosk’s vision was clouding, and he thought that he might be waking up. He stared at Davix’s back. It had to be a dream. Didn’t it? Everyone agreed that Mosk had killed Davix.

_Except the Nain Rouge…she said she’d believe it when she saw it._

‘This is just a dream,’ Mosk whispered to himself.

‘I wish that it were,’ Davix said, without looking at Mosk again. ‘I’ve never experienced anything at all like this and I’m curious, but also crushed. Of _course._ ’

He looked up at the ceiling and reached his hands up, the light glinting blue over his black hair.

‘Curious and crushed,’ Davix said. ‘And not possessed of my full potential. I’ve been injured, but no, it is that I am dead. Actually. A ghost. Ahma. Andi. Umbra. Or apparition. Wraith. Shade. Am I _haunting_ you? Whoever you are?’

Davix didn’t look at him even now, but Mosk knew the words were for him. His vision was greying out, his breath came faster and faster.

‘Then we must be linked, mayhap,’ Davix said, rolling his head until he could gaze at Mosk side on. His blue eyes were like a blow. ‘Am I linked to you, little one?’

‘No,’ Mosk said.

‘I think that I must be, and moreover, if I’m correct, we will merry meet again.’

_‘No,’_ Mosk hissed.

Davix smiled at him, the gesture strangely innocent. And then he closed his eyes and his wrists drooped, forearms gracefully shifting like he was conducting something he couldn’t quite hear.

‘And if we merry meet again, then you will help me hail my brother.’

‘No!’

‘I am ill-informed about ghosts, truthfully, it was his area of study. But he could take this fragment of me, and fix it to something real, and make me-’

_‘NO!’_

Davix’s eyes gleamed, and that shining blue was the last thing he saw as his world turned to black.

*

He hyperventilated under blankets in the colours of fire, and told himself it wasn’t real, it wasn’t real, _it wasn’t real._

‘Mosk? _Mosk!’_

The door slammed shut, and Mosk startled, not remembering where he was, or how much time had passed, but that was Eran. Was he in Eran’s room?

The blankets were whipped back and Mosk cringed away, still naked, and stared at him, a hand over his mouth as his mind raced. He wished he was dizzy and empty again. He wanted none of this! None of the feelings!

Eran held a plate with food on it, and a canister of sap was tucked between his upper arm and side.

‘I got us breakfast. You slept through the night. Was it another nightmare?’

Mosk nodded mutely.

_Just a nightmare._

‘Mosk,’ Eran said, turning and quickly setting down the plate, before coming back to the bed. ‘What is it? What’s wrong? You’ve never had nightmares like this. Tell me. You can tell me.’

But Mosk stared at him and thought of Eran and his connection to the ice, and remembered:

_‘Then we must be linked,’_ in Davix’s voice, an echo that rattled through him until he realised he could never talk to Eran about this. Not for any reason. What if it wasn’t a dream and by some horrific chance, he _was_ connected to that awful plague of ice beyond just…accidentally making it? What if he was connected to Davix and his powers?

_What if it’s all your fault? Like you once thought? You shouldn’t forgive Eran for letting you believe you weren’t responsible for it! You can’t tell him any of this!_

Mosk grit out a short moan and fell forwards, burrowing his face into the mattress. It was only as he clawed into it that he realised his forearms and ankle had been untied. All that was left was the rope on his wrist, which felt like it had been retied.

‘Tell me,’ Eran said, and he squeezed Mosk’s arm firmly, but even that was too much.

‘ _Don’t!’_

‘Mosk,’ Eran whispered, and Mosk heard the sound of him jerking his arm away.

‘Don’t,’ Mosk said, miserably.

‘Was it something I did? Was it too much?’

Abruptly, Mosk wanted to _wail._ He couldn’t remember feeling something like this for so long he’d almost forgotten it. The sense of it hammered inside of him, tightening his throat and making his eyes burn and his fingers claw, but he kept it at bay, because Eran had sounded like _that._ Eran had sounded like _that,_ after being _nice_ to him, and Mosk was the reason.

He was always going to be the reason. He ruined everything.

He was polluted by some sickness before Davix and Olphix got to him, but now he was cursed with them too. Olphix’s magic inside of him still. Davix somehow connected to him. He couldn’t make those dreams up could he? What would Gwyn say? What would they all say when they realised? What would they _do_ to him?

‘By all the fires, Mosk, can you talk to me? Please?’

‘It wasn’t you,’ Mosk said, his voice thin. ‘It wasn’t you. It wasn’t.’

So he wasn’t going to cry out after all. He’d stuffed it back inside. He was awake, so he wouldn’t have to sleep for a while now. And if he’d really slept through the entire night, and it was morning, then…some of that sleep was restful.

Eran sat next to him on the bed but didn’t place a hand on him, and Mosk felt like he’d ruined all of it. And it’d been okay, hadn’t it? What had happened before? Eran had even said that Mosk was good.

He’d ruined it.

_I’m sorry,_ he thought. _I’m sorry._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter, 'Damaged Instincts:'
> 
> Eran nodded. ‘He’s getting worse. I don’t know why. Julvia said it could just be that we’re sort of getting a break, but I don’t know.’ 
> 
> ‘What does your gut say?’ Augus said, tilting his head as he sipped at water. 
> 
> ‘Something’s wrong,’ Eran said. 
> 
> ‘Then trust your gut. Find out what the problem is. He’s a fae who has killed one of the most powerful Master Mages that has ever existed in the entire world, the second member of the School of the Staff, and he is – as far as we know – the only fae to have ever survived having his heartsong removed in the process. That is no ordinary creature that accompanies us on this journey. He’s a seventh son of a seventh son. If you think it is not only regular trauma that plagues him, then-’


	4. Damaged Instincts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'RE BACK! Well after 5.5 weeks driving 2,600 miles through England, Wales, Scotland and Orkney. Going through an attempted carjacking, dealing with entertaining plane delays and 'technical faults,' and more, I'm so happy to be posting again. I decided to take a break while I was away from posting, but I have been writing! I've finished chapter 13 of _The Ice Plague_ and have been working on other content too. Hope y'all are doing well. I literally just got back into Perth like 2.5 hours ago but I have very much wanted to post these chapters. There may be a bit more than usual in May before it all settles back into its usual schedule. :D

_Eran_

_*_

It didn’t seem possible that he could get used to the sea so quickly, but he was. He didn’t like to walk too close to the railing and he was still overcome with bouts of motion sickness, but as the days passed, he preferred being aboveboard more and more, enjoying the lively activity on the ship, the many fae that seemed happy to see him, the sense of community that reminded him of his home. It was a world of colour and mist and joy, and no one drowned, and the sea itself was as Ondine said: a desert of water instead of sand.

Evening had fallen and many had gathered on the deck reserved for socialising. There were night gatherings nearly every evening. Some of the sea fae had conjured strings of phosphorescent lights in blue and green and gold, winking and twinkling away. The lights draped everywhere, and it seemed that more were added regularly. Some hung in globes of translucent shell, others in impossibly thin prisms of mother of pearl. One of the fae there, a conchiol named Asceto, had skin that gleamed pearlescent, eyes made of faceted stone, hair of jingling shell. Eran didn’t know what they did on the ship, but he’d heard that every night they emerged from beneath and made shells for people in whatever shapes and colours they wished.

When Eran saw Julvia, he smiled and waved. She came over and sat next to him on a raised section of decking, her legs swinging next to his.

‘I love it here,’ Julvia said.

But Eran watched as she stared at Ondine, down by long tables made of driftwood and shell, where food was pooled together for people to share as they needed. Magic was woven and rewoven each night to stop the food from sliding along the tables. Ondine was talking animatedly and then briefly turned to face them, hair whipping over her shoulders in the brisk night wind.

Julvia didn’t even look away. She stared back steadily, and it was Ondine who quickly went back to what she was doing, touching her bared shoulder in a gentle, sensual way. Eran could feel her awareness of them both from where he sat.

‘So,’ Eran said, leaning back on both of his arms. ‘That happened fast.’

‘Did it?’ Julvia said, laughing softly. ‘I haven’t given my heart to her. I’m still getting to know her. But I like her very much. She’s very soft and warm.’

Eran swallowed, thinking that from Julvia’s tone alone, she might be talking of more than just Ondine’s personality.

‘And she’s small,’ Julvia said, leaning forwards, her wings flaring a little. ‘I like holding her. It feels like a dream. I know we’ve hardly spent any time here at all, but the sea is renewing, and we’ve all needed this so much. Less so Augus and Ash, of course, but even they are finally resting. Gwyn said we might even see Augus tonight. Apparently he is walking around now.’

Eran nodded, and Julvia tilted sideways, bumping shoulders with him.

‘What about you?’ Julvia said.

‘What about me?’ Eran said.

‘You’re aboveboard, the sea is all around you. When I saw you last night, I realised it’s not wearing on you like it was. It wasn’t that long ago that it paralysed you completely.’

‘Yes,’ Eran said laughing. ‘It still scares me a lot. But the desert scares people who aren’t used to it. I’m trying to follow some of Ondine’s advice, it’s helping.’

‘And Mosk?’

Eran fell silent, thinking about the complicated subject that was Mosk.

In his easier moments, Eran thought of how shocking it had been to experience the strange homecoming that was taking control of Mosk like that, seeing it through, realising that somehow he was _good_ at whatever he was doing. He was captivated by the way Mosk sounded when he enjoyed something, or when he was desperate and confused and hungry for something, when he _wanted_ the sensations Eran gave him instead of tuning them out or feeling nothing at all. After his talk with Augus, ideas had floated in his mind and even though he’d only tested the waters, he felt the revelation of it burn deep down into his marrow. He couldn’t even feel ashamed of it anymore, not when it flamed inside him pure and bright.

He smiled ruefully. He wanted Mosk so badly. He couldn’t forget about his mission, his revenge, but he spent too much time thinking of all the ways he wanted to make Mosk heed him, _feel_ him. He went to bed dazedly thinking of it, and if nightmares left him alone, he woke hard.

Beside his easier moments was a growing worry that he’d done something wrong, missed something big. Mosk’s nightmares weren’t normal anymore. He never seemed to sleep. Eran had no idea how to truly help him, because Mosk didn’t talk to him, and Eran knew that somehow he wasn’t asking the right questions. What did Mosk dream about? Eran didn’t know. It had to be worse than whatever he was dreaming before, because he’d never reacted like that in the past. But what could be worse?

Mosk was quick to reassure Eran that it wasn’t him and he sounded sincere. But Eran was worried. Mosk needed to sleep and he didn’t seem to be getting any rest. He listened out at night, sometimes walking across the corridor and pressing his ear to Mosk’s door and listening to him pacing around his room.

He wasn’t sleeping, and Eran couldn’t just…push him to exhaustion every time. Not when it didn’t stop the nightmares anyway.

‘I’m worried about him,’ Eran said finally. ‘Something is more wrong than usual, and he won’t tell me what it is.’

‘We’ve all been through a lot,’ Julvia said. ‘Mammu always said that sometimes it’s not during the floods when you’ll see strong people break. It’s after, when it’s calmer. It’s why I asked how you were.’

‘You do that anyway.’

‘Do I?’ Julvia said, and then she laughed. ‘I do! Well, I always want to know, you see.’

Eran smiled when he saw that they finished making a fire pit out of shell and rock. They ritually rebuilt it every night, which surprised him. It was so like what his parents used to do with many of their fires, even rebuilding fire pits. One of the fae, a young woman in a sheer white robe with brown skin who’d introduced herself as Cymothoe, raised her hand towards Eran.

‘I like this part,’ Eran said, pushing himself upright. ‘Excuse me.’

‘Of course,’ Julvia said, standing and pressing her hands together. ‘I like this part too.’

Eran jumped down the ledge and landed nimbly, and then walked over to Cymothoe and the fire pit. The shells this evening gleamed red and green, like those Awan wore. The First Mate was nowhere to be seen, probably piloting the ship in the background to give Ondine a break.

The winds were brisk, and Eran knew the fire he made would have to be strong and possess more magic than usual. He was wary of combining it with too many of his own desert rituals, because igniting the fire drew a crowd and after a year of running, being a fire refugee, being taught that his fires meant almost nothing in a world that had gotten used to fire refugees, and then being a source of sheer terror for an Aur dryad if he so much as generated too much heat… It was harder now, than it used to be.

He looked at the fae around him. He was already starting to remember some of their names.  Awan seemed to go out of his way to be helpful to newcomers, probably because the sooner a fae got used to the ship and the crew on board, the sooner they could recognise when they needed to get out of the way and let the ship run smoothly.

Eran stood before the two huge circles of black water cut into the decking – each enough to contain over a hundred people – that opened all the way down to the sea. It would sink any normal ship to have holes cut into it, but the Mantissa crew included sea fae who worked constantly to keep the water where it should be. The ports were used by all sea fae to enter and exit the ocean as necessary, diving down into underwater communities before returning with chests of trade goods, fish from hunting, or supplies. Eran had never seen anything like it and had watched in fascination as fae dove deep and returned minutes or hours or days later.

He thought it also explained why different fish swam past the glass in his room, because it wasn’t an aquarium, but just a panel that opened to the ocean that was permitted to run through the ship as ballast.

He had no idea that so many sea fae could work with the sea like that. Not all could part the ocean like Ondine could, that was a rare talent, but they could move water through the ship, keeping it afloat.

Now, they were still, turned towards the fire pit. He felt a pressure that made one of his hands shake. He felt, abruptly, that they should have more than a young orphaned adult here doing this for them. But there was no one else. He felt that he should be able to have his family here at least, to guide him.

But they were gone.

At first, he’d only been excited at the idea of lighting this fire for them, but now it weighed heavily, and he had to open his lungs to the wet misty ocean winds and felt so far from home that he could have screamed.

Instead of praying or chanting or singing, he simply called fire to his hands. It still came easily, in fact since he’d shifted into true-form, he felt like it was there in a way it hadn’t been before. He didn’t know how to describe it, since he’d always felt the smoke in his lungs, the kindling in his blood, the fire burning in the heart of him.

The night glowed brighter as he wreathed fire around his fingers and wrists. It burned in a contained way, warm upon his skin, even though it would have harmed anyone else. He twined it with magic, reinforcing it against salt water and waves, against mist and spray, against harsh gusts of wind. Adding magic to his natural ability didn’t come as naturally, but it was still there waiting for him to use it. He felt the fire grow stronger and knew that he was treating it with disrespect even as he gave it life and magic.

He was supposed to sing it into being, treat it as though it was alive – because all fires lived, and all fires died – and he was supposed to name it for the god Kabiri, and the other fire gods, and bless it so that it grew strong like a child into an adult.

Instead he closed his mind to that part of his life, and placed the robust magical fire into the fire pit.

Why had he told Julvia he liked this part? Did he only like the memory of it?

The fae around him applauded and cheered as the bonfire grew in strength, and then nearby someone started to play a fiddle, another a xylophone made of shell, other instruments joined in and the music started. Eran stared at the fire knowing that he should say _something_ to it, and instead he turned away and walked across the decking until he could stand closer to the railing, to where it was darker and quieter.

He was doing it all wrong, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it the way it should be done.

He pressed a warm palm to his chest and turned to leave, when he heard a slow step behind him. He looked over his shoulder and was surprised to see Augus with a walking stick made of green, twisted metal. It was graceful, and the handle looked comfortable.

Augus smiled thinly at him, and then stopped by the wooden planked wall beside him. He looked as though he wanted to lean against it.

‘You’re…’ Eran said. ‘Do you need any help?’

‘No, thank you,’ Augus said. He looked around impassively, but Eran thought he looked baleful as he did so. His problem with the sea wasn’t like Eran’s fear of it. It was _hatred._ ‘Have you seen Gwyn?’

‘No,’ Eran said. ‘He’s not… I mean I haven’t seen him aboveboard tonight.’

Augus pursed his lips, and then shook his head. ‘Then I might just stand here for a little bit.’

‘I can go find him if you want?’

‘As charming an errand boy as you would make,’ Augus said, looking him up and down casually, ‘I may have overestimated my ability to be up here.’

Augus shifted, and then with some reluctance, he leaned against the wooden planks next to Eran. He wasn’t coughing horrendously anymore, and his voice sounded almost back to normal, except that it was worn thin with exhaustion. There were circles under his eyes exacerbated by the night shadows. Here, tucked a little away from the music and the lights, Augus looked ghoulish.

‘Eran,’ Augus said, not looking at him, ‘I can feel your Seelie fretting from here, and it chafes. Stop it.’

‘I can’t just turn it off.’

‘Then…’ Augus looked out to the sea again and sighed. ‘Help me back to my room. And find Gwyn for me.’

Eran nodded, moving alongside Augus and not quite knowing how to help him until Augus slung one of his arms easily around Eran’s shoulders. He used his free arm to hold the walking stick.

‘I’d find it embarrassing,’ Augus said, ‘or…I would have once found it embarrassing, but this isn’t like being conquered in battle or combat. Waterhorses like me are supposed to die around the ocean and I’m not dead. An achievement, if anything.’

‘You should be resting,’ Eran said softly as they made their way up the stairs.

‘Please,’ Augus scoffed silently. ‘Are you my keeper? I think _not._ Of my actual keepers, Ash is playing cards below deck, and Gwyn is doing whatever he likes. Ah, that’s unfair of me, but I grow bored and I wish to make mischief of someone.’

Eran said nothing, his ears and cheeks warming. He had no doubt of what Augus meant when he said he wanted to ‘make mischief of someone.’

‘And you, Eran?’ Augus said, a smile in his voice. ‘Have you been making mischief of someone?’

‘I have no idea what you mean,’ Eran said, looking behind him at the fae they walked past, noting with relief that they seemed completely uninterested in their conversation.

‘Not one for subtlety? Fine. Have you fucked any trees lately?’

Eran’s shoulders tensed, and he knew Augus felt it, because Augus chuckled softly to himself.

‘No,’ Eran said stiffly.

‘Tch, poor thing.’

‘Why don’t _you_ do it? Since you’re so-?’

Augus laughed loudly enough that he had to stop, given over to fits of coughing that still didn’t stop the gleam in his eyes. He moved, bent over, into the corridor of the officer’s quarters, clutching the walking stick to brace himself as he leant against the wall. Eventually, he slowed and hummed to himself.

‘I couldn’t have taken him on even before,’ Augus said finally, stepping up again and shaking his head when Eran went to help him. He walked slowly to his room, Eran following, the walking stick thumping against the wood. Above them, the barnacles clinging to the ceiling glowed in soft golds and greens, the night turning them to glimmering stars above them.

‘What?’ Eran said.

‘Ah, well,’ Augus said, coming to his room and taking up the hand towels by the door, dipping them in water and washing his face, his arms, his hands. He passed it to Eran when he was done. ‘You reek of salt.’

Augus let himself into his room, carefully navigating the stairs, and then sat tiredly on a chair, leaning the walking stick against the bed so that it was still within reach. Eran followed after using another hand towel, trying to get rid of as much of the salt as possible. It felt like a useless endeavour, even the water in their showers was pumped straight from the sea.

‘Don’t you want me to get Gwyn?’

‘Yes, in a moment, come here. Sit,’ Augus said, pointing to the bed.

Eran sat automatically, and then wondered if that was what it was like with him sometimes, if people just followed his orders because he spoke like that. Like someone accustomed to even the King of the Unseelie obeying him. Sometimes, at least.

‘Why wouldn’t you have taken him on before?’ Eran said.

‘If you can’t see why for yourself,’ Augus said placidly, ‘I’m not going to explain it. It’s obvious. Tell me what would happen if, for three or four days, you had him at his worst and had only pain and pleasure, comfort and sex and violence to ply him with? Tell me which combination would be most effective? Go on, I’ll wait.’

Eran poured some water from a jug for Augus and brought it over as he thought about it. The earliest version of Mosk he’d seen. The one that begged to be fucked by strangers throughout. One that panicked at being burnt, but never learned a thing from pain because he expected it. Someone who hated comfort and gentle touches to the point that it roused violence.

_But maybe if you just forced him…eventually you’d break through? Or…_

‘He’d break?’ Eran said, questioning.

‘He was already broken _,’_ Augus said. ‘I am no stranger to broken things, but he is not steel to be tempered at my fire. Eran, I have never been able to take on all fae who seek me out, and Mosk would never have sought me out. He was only seeking death. I know. I have explored him with compulsions. I saw it for myself. Besides, not everyone is for everyone. He is not for me, nor I for him.’

Eran nodded. ‘He’s getting worse. I don’t know why. Julvia said it could just be that we’re sort of getting a break, but I don’t know.’

‘What does your gut say?’ Augus said, tilting his head as he sipped at water.

‘Something’s wrong,’ Eran said.

‘Then trust your gut. Find out what the problem is. He’s a fae who has killed one of the most powerful Master Mages that has ever existed in the entire world, the second member of the School of the Staff, and he is – as far as we know – the only fae to have ever survived having his heartsong removed in the process. That is no ordinary creature that accompanies us on this journey. He’s a seventh son of a seventh son. If you think it is not only regular trauma that plagues him, then-’

‘But he has everyone else’s, too,’ Eran said, and then swallowed when he saw the hard look that Augus gave him, possibly for interrupting. ‘Sorry, really, but that spell Olphix put on him to say other people’s worst memories instead of the truth about what happened to him… It’s like he’s lived their memories too. Yours, the _miskatin’s…_ He has nightmares about them. It’s like they’re his memories. He won’t talk about it hardly at all, but your underworld experiences, the miskatin’s, me and my- All of it.’

‘But has he not had that all along?’ Augus said, unperturbed.

‘Yes, but-’

‘I have told you what to do. Go fetch Gwyn for me, please.’

Eran nodded and went to leave, when Augus swore.

‘Wait,’ Augus said. ‘I’m an _idiot.’_

He stood, swayed a little, then walked over to the small chest of drawers by his bed. He opened it, and beneath the dried saltvarra, he found something and drew it out. A hagstone of green, a natural hole in the centre of it. Augus clenched it tightly in his fingers, closed his eyes, and then smiled to himself.

‘There,’ Augus sighed, sitting on his bed, eyes closed. ‘There.’

He kept his fingers on the hagstone and Eran stared in curiosity, but then Augus opened one eye and squinted at him.

‘What are you still doing here? I have no need of a servant.’

‘I’m not your servant,’ Eran said, staring at him.

‘If you don’t leave, I shall start calling you _fire trow.’_

Eran left.

He was halfway down the corridor when he saw Gwyn turn a corner, running towards him, a hagstone of granite in his fingers, attached to a cord of red leather. Gwyn’s eyes widened when he saw him.

‘Is he all right? What happened?’

But Gwyn didn’t wait for a response, barrelling past him – Eran flattening himself against the wall – and throwing the door open to Augus’ room.

Eran stared, and then heard: ‘I thought you were _dying!’_

‘Oh good,’ Augus’ voice floated from the room. ‘You’re here.’

The door slammed shut leaving them both in the room together, and Eran shook his head, pressing his lips together. Their relationship could _not_ be healthy. He didn’t want anything to do with it, so he walked away.

*

The next morning, Eran woke to the shifting lights of fish darting behind glass. He pulled a red and orange blanket around himself. He was so far from home, he felt like a candle about to go out at any moment. His fire was stronger than ever. Why did he feel this way?

He got up, reapplied his black eyeliner, and stared into his amber eyes at the mirror that hung in the room.

‘I am Eran Iliakambar,’ he said softly, his voice unsteady. ‘Son of Ifir and Adali, brother of Vhadi, Ada and Adalia. I am an ambassador of the flame, and chosen by my god…’

He rested his hands at his chest. Ondine said that volcanoes made islands in the sea, but Kabiri felt so far away. What if he wasn’t even alive? He’d been sick, unwell, and maybe their journey was taking too long.

‘I am Eran Iliakambar,’ he whispered to himself, smoke pouring in thin controlled lines from the corners of his mouth. ‘I am…’

He knew if he tried to sing even one of the sacred notes, his voice would shake. He had overcome his fear of the ocean, but something was still eating at him and he didn’t know what it was. Absurdly, he wanted to go to Mosk, wanted to talk to him about it. But he didn’t trust that Mosk would want to listen to him.

Mosk wanted to be fucked by him, but Eran didn’t know if Mosk really liked him at all. He thought sometimes, maybe he did. But Mosk might like anyone who had shown him some kindness.

With a bent index finger, he drew a glyph of protection over his chest. He closed his eyes, remembering that on his old clothing, Fenwrel had found magical glyphs painted by his parents. But the only one who could write the sacred glyphs in his family now was him.

He blinked rapidly, sniffed and took a deep breath, and then left his room and walked across the corridor to knock on Mosk’s door.

Mosk opened it so quickly that he must have already been up and pacing around again. The shadows under his eyes were somehow worse than the ones Augus had sported. His lips were bitten.

‘Mosk,’ Eran said, his voice heavy.

‘No!’ Mosk said, pointing at him. ‘No. What do you want?’

It was like taking two steps forward and then ten back.

‘I’m worried about you. I’m allowed to be worried! _Look_ at you.’

‘I’m sleeping,’ Mosk muttered. But Eran knew it was a lie. Felt it all the way in his bones and for a moment wanted to grab Mosk and shake him. Why would Mosk lie about this? He thought of what Augus had told him and felt a sudden despair. How was he meant to develop any kind of connection with Mosk at all?

‘You have to tell me what’s wrong,’ Eran insisted. He pushed into Mosk’s room and looked around, as though the answer would be there, then made a sound of shock when hands grabbed his arm and then his shirt. Mosk pressed his body into Eran’s.

‘Fuck me,’ Mosk said, his hand twisting in Eran’s shirt. ‘That’s what’s wrong. You not fucking me.’

‘Stop _lying,’_ Eran hissed, he clutched at Mosk’s shoulders, didn’t let go even when smoke streamed from his mouth and Mosk jerked backwards.

‘Don’t burn me!’ Mosk shouted.

‘I’m not going to,’ Eran said. ‘It just _happens_ sometimes. It doesn’t mean I’m going to burn you. I want to know what’s wrong. What’s _really_ wrong?’

‘I hate you,’ Mosk said. ‘That’s what’s wrong.’

‘You hated me before,’ Eran ground out. ‘It wasn’t like this.’

‘I hate you _more_ now,’ Mosk said venomously. ‘I hate you the _most.’_

Eran blinked at him, let him go, watched the wounded way Mosk cringed away from him. But then Mosk turned back, leaned towards him like he hadn’t wanted Eran to let him go at all. Eran rubbed tiredly at his forehead as he tried to see through the smoke haze in front of him. Mosk was like an indistinct shape in a sandstorm, stunted tree or friend or foe or animal or rock or something else. Eran could only wait for Mosk’s true shape to reveal itself.

Because Eran knew that when Mosk talked like this, he felt cornered. And if he felt cornered already, he’d felt cornered before Eran had even walked in the room.

‘Is someone hurting you?’ Eran said, his voice low.

Mosk whirled, staring at him with wide eyes. ‘What? Why would you say that?’

‘Is that it?’ Eran said.

‘No,’ Mosk said, his voice low, uncertain. ‘Who would hurt me? I see no one. Even the sea trows don’t like me.’

But Eran felt like he was closer to the truth. He took a step forwards, not liking the way Mosk stood like he wanted to disappear inside of himself. He thought that if he were like Augus, maybe he’d use this moment to distract Mosk with sex or pleasure or control but he couldn’t. Not when he felt so shaken inside himself.

‘Could someone still be hurting you anyway?’ Eran said, not even understanding what he was asking, but needing to pursue the thread of it. What had Augus told him? Trust his gut.

‘How?’ Mosk said, eyes downcast.

‘Or maybe not hurting you, but scaring you?’ Eran said, feeling so far out of his depth. But Mosk looked at him, a flash of grey-green and a press of his lips that made him feel like he’d found something _true._ ‘Scaring you?’

‘No,’ Mosk whispered.

But with Mosk, sometimes a ‘no’ really did mean yes. Eran felt queasy. Was someone scaring him? But how? He imagined it, someone coming down here secretively to intimidate Mosk. But why would they? Everyone on the ship that he’d met so far seemed trustworthy.

_You haven’t met everyone on the ship._

‘Okay,’ Eran said, hating the idea that someone was scaring Mosk and he didn’t know anything about it. ‘Would you-’

A sudden, hollow siren echoed through the ship. Mosk looked upwards as though he could find the source of the sound, and Eran stared ahead, thinking back to Oengus’ tower. It was the ice. _The ice had come and-_

‘Attention!’ Awan’s voice shuddered through their room, magically amplified. ‘Putting down abrupt anchor. Hold fast!’

A few seconds later the room – the whole ship – jolted and Mosk and Eran were thrown sideways. Eran landed hard into a cabinet, the drawers opening, and Mosk was flung into the wall. They slid down, but it was hard to get back up again as the ship encountered drag. Then, they shot forward and were slammed into Mosk’s bed. Mosk cried out feebly, and Eran grabbed at him, holding onto the bed, which – like the furniture in the room – had been secured.

‘What’s happening!’ Mosk shouted.

‘I don’t know,’ Eran said.

The crushing pressure stopped at once, the Mantissa seemed as though she shuddered to a complete stop and Eran was overcome with a sudden bout of nausea. He turned and retched, covering his mouth, but only brought up a mouthful of bile that he swallowed back down again.

‘Oh,’ Mosk said, ‘isn’t that normally me? I’m the one who does that. Do you need…do you need some ginger?’

Eran shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. After several long, deep breaths he turned and helped Mosk up, feeling off centre and staring up through the ceiling. He wanted to know what was happening.

‘Will you come up with me?’ Eran said.

‘I… No,’ Mosk said. He shook his head and folded his arms around himself. ‘I can’t. What if it’s bad?’

‘I’ll go up and find out, then come back down, okay?’

After a moment, Mosk nodded, and Eran pushed himself up and helped Mosk up at the same time, easing him onto the bed where he sat clutching at the sides of the mattress.

‘It’s going to be okay,’ Eran said.

‘You don’t know anything,’ Mosk said tiredly.

Eran stared at him for a long time, then turned and left, and felt Mosk’s words chipping at the weaknesses that were already inside of him.

*

As soon as he pushed open the door leading to the decking, he froze. He had to _push_ the door, and when it opened a crack, the wind came in and tossed his hair every which way, whipping at his clothes. Beyond, the sky had turned a deep, forbidding grey. The wind smelled of ozone and salt.

Over the sea, he could see stationary tornadoes that twisted slowly. At least seven alone in his field of vision. But they weren’t racing towards them. They held steady. They weren’t like any of the dust or sand whirls he’d ever seen in the desert. They were larger, and aside from the circular trunk of their body twisting left and right, they didn’t move.

But the winds were so strong, and around him, he could hear howling and whistling. A dark figure flew overhead and he stared up and realised it was some kind of fae. Then, as he looked at the rigging instead of the sea, he saw many of those dark shapes clinging and they were howling as much as the tornadoes were.

He pushed the door open further as a fae ran by. The fae stopped and ran back and Eran was shocked to see it was Awan.

‘You want to see?’ Awan said, his voice hard and clipped. ‘We are about to enter negotiations. Those up there, they are broungers.’

‘Are we safe?’ Eran said.

‘On the Mantissa?’ Awan said, flashing a quick, wicked grin. ‘You would even ask me that question? But do you want to see? Come along then! We must be quick. Ondine does not like prolonged negotiations.’

Awan started running again, and Eran shoved the door open and joined him, realising that it was easier to navigate the pushy winds if he stayed near Awan. There must be something about him that could control them. As soon as Eran thought it, he realised it was true, and maybe that’s why Awan was the First Mate. He could _control_ the winds?

They headed to the quarterdeck, where Ondine and Awan commanded the Mantissa. There, a group of fae that Eran had never seen before were on the ship, assembled together, and Ondine, Gwyn, and several others – including some of the sirens that Ondine kept with her on board – waited. When Ondine saw Eran, she nodded once, and then beckoned Awan towards her.

Eran found himself standing among a group of high-status, high-powered fae. In front of him, a number of sea fae newcomers that must have been responsible for all the tornadoes. Eran couldn’t count them anymore. There had to be over fifty. Above them, the broungers kept howling, crawling all over the rigging, pointing at the tornadoes. They whooped and called like desert wolves, the occasional ululation making Eran’s skin prickle.

A fae with hair of seaweed stepped forwards, her skin a pale green, eyes flashing like pearls.

‘Ondine, the Glory of the Seas, you grace us with your presence.’

‘Sure,’ Ondine said, smiling. ‘The Mantissa has been on your waters for a few days now, so why the trouble, Erewen?’

Erewen curtseyed once, and then looked for a long time at the King of the Unseelie. Eran wondered what status she was. Surely Seelie? But then…Ondine’s crew wasn’t a sole Seelie crew. Awan had told him it was far more normal in the sea for different alignments to work together, if their goals were the same.

‘At first I thought you would let the Mantissa rest again,’ Erewen said. ‘If it was only to be a temporary floating of a day or so, I couldn’t possibly demand a tithe or tax for swimming in my territory. What a crime that would be.’

‘Okay, sure,’ Ondine agreed. ‘Things have changed then?’

‘You’ll find no unclaimed waters here. If you want to sail into the House of Atros now, our broungers can bring you there, we have the means.’ She gestured lazily to the tornadoes all around them, and Eran stared in alarm. ‘But I feel that no one wants to be that foolish these days, and no one is rich enough to stay on their waters for that long. So, we offer you our hospitality. In exchange for a gift.’

It was like desert trading, except instead of playing a game with one another, this was far more serious. Erewen radiated energy and power. Eran didn’t think it was magic, but it was obvious that anyone who could order those fae above them in the rigging to bring so many tornadoes like it was nothing, was someone who could force them to do whatever she wanted. Eran looked at Ondine, but she didn’t seem bothered, stepping forwards with a smile.

It was Gwyn who spoke. ‘You’re demanding a price?’ he said. ‘I am the King of the Unseelie, and you are Unseelie. You are obligated to let us pass.’

Ondine didn’t even turn around, but Erewen gave him a withering look.

‘Dual King,’ she said, ‘you are new here, and we follow not your obligations, nor those applied against us by any _land_ monarch, Seelie or Unseelie. Even if one of them still fancies himself King of the Atlantic. Ondine is more royalty to us than you will ever be, and if you want safe passage, you should defer to your elders. You can survive a prolonged sleep in the sea, but you’ll not be conscious for it.’

‘Threats are just lazy,’ Ondine said dismissively. ‘Erewen, please. Just tell me what you want. We’re not flush at the moment, but you’re not the kind to pilfer without cause.’

Erewen sighed, as though Ondine was ruining the theatre that she was trying to evoke.

‘Fine, fine. Actually, I know you’re not ‘flush’ at the moment, it’s why I have something else in mind. A task, if you will.’

‘Come on,’ Ondine said, and then groaned. ‘Be easier if you just asked for money.’

‘I’m sure,’ Erewen said. ‘But life is not easy for any of us hemmed in by the House of Atros these days, and thus I have no easy tasks for you. Come down with me and we’ll talk. I’ll even call off some of the broungers. But you’ll remain anchored for the duration. You remember how this goes.’

‘All too well,’ Ondine said, coming close enough to grasp both of Erewen’s hands in hers like they were sisters. They briefly pressed their noses together, and then Erewen drew Ondine towards one of the deck-shafts that led directly into the sea.

Gwyn took several step forwards. ‘This doesn’t seem well-advised,’ he said sharply.

‘It is normal,’ Awan said, placing a hand on his forearm. ‘This is how it is in the sea. Favours and obligations. Dual King, you must wait. Erewen won’t ask for that which Ondine cannot deliver.’

Ondine turned around and smiled at Gwyn, and then her eyes seemed to search beyond. Eran tried to follow her gaze, but Ondine didn’t seem to find what or who she was looking for. A faint, troubled look crossed her expression, and then with a smooth leap into the water that caused no ripples at all, she, Erewen and half of Erewen’s crew that she’d brought with her, disappeared into the sea.

‘I don’t like this,’ Gwyn said. ‘I could help.’

‘You can’t go down there and perform the tasks,’ Awan said. ‘You cannot breathe water. And you do not know our ways. You can help by learning more, instead of interrupting negotiations rudely. We have tried to tell you how much your rule doesn’t matter here. You are very well-respected by all of us, but even if you were Seelie, Ondine would still not feel obligated to obey you.’

Gwyn nodded after a moment, and then laughed tiredly. ‘I seem to recall it was like that even when she was a member of my Inner Court. I think I even liked it.’

‘There!’ Awan said, clapping him on the shoulder. Eran saw Gwyn flinch, and saw the way Awan marked it, the way his fingers of the hand that had slapped him curled a little at his side. ‘You understand!’

‘I was led to think Erewen wouldn’t do this,’ Gwyn said, his voice quieter, reserved.

‘Yes, which leads me to think the House of Atros is leaning harder on the other territories now that Albion is no longer in the sea. Come, we’ll chat about it. Eran, do you want to come too?’

Eran was surprised to be invited, and he thought that he should really get back to Mosk and tell him that – for the most part – it seemed to be okay, but that he maybe shouldn’t come on board if he wanted to avoid seeing snakelike tornadoes stretched from black sky to churning sea.

‘Eran, hurry up,’ Gwyn said, already turning and walking back towards the officer’s quarters.

Eran followed automatically, still feeling nauseated, wanting to escape the sight of the tornadoes. He knew Mosk was waiting, but he wanted to feel empowered instead of helpless. Even for just a few minutes, he wanted to nurture the warm feeling that came from being invited by Awan to join the King, even if it was only to learn more about sea politics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter 'Unexpected Guests:' 
> 
> ‘Jealous?’ Augus murmured, voice so soft that it could have been the wind. 
> 
> Mosk stared at him, eyes narrowing, but Augus was staring ahead, that smirk of before on his face. 
> 
> ‘No,’ Mosk said, as Ondine and Eran laughed together, and Ash put his book down and joined them, spinning first Ondine, then Eran. Then Uhina joined them, Awan too, and Gwyn only rolled his eyes and walked a distance away. Mosk thought he did it to escape, but then he realised he’d cleared a space for the others to dance. 
> 
> ‘You’re jealous,’ Augus said in a light, sing-song voice.


	5. Unexpected Guests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHAHAHA *quietly cackles to myself because of reasons*
> 
> We fall back to a regular updating schedule after today, hope y'all enjoy the chapter! Huge thank you to the commenters, and also to the people who leave kudos/bookmark/and read. You're all awesome.

**05 – Unexpected Guests**

_Mosk_

*

Two days passed after the ship was forced to drop anchor. After a confusing night, Eran finally came back and explained everything, and Mosk stared at him, feeling a mix of annoyance and relief and hatred that Eran was _fine,_ that nothing was _wrong,_ when he’d spent hours in his room panicking that something had happened. The spiral shell had grown so much moss that it had pushed the drawer open, pillows of ragged green peeping out, and Mosk had eaten some of it in desperation, finding the flavour unfamiliar and hoping its bitter tang wouldn’t hurt him.

He didn’t leave his room after that, scared of the new people on the ship, uncertain about sleeping.

Then he’d fallen asleep against his will, but hadn’t dreamed of Davix, and he didn’t understand what was happening. Maybe they were only nightmares and his brain didn’t need to make them anymore. But he could feel something about it clinging to him and he couldn’t tell if the miasma was his imagination or if it was real. He was constantly conscious of the ice and the tunnels beneath it, Davix’s shade asking plaintively for his brother.

When Eran came into his room with sap, Mosk was dragging his fingers through his hair to distract himself from the urge to sleep, an uptick in fear pulsing inside him.

‘Where are you even getting the sap?’ Mosk said.

Eran looked down at it. ‘They trade for it. I understand it’s quite expensive, but we don’t have to worry about that anymore. And Julvia has been fetching food for her and Augus and Ash. She flies back to land and gets it.’

‘Does she?’ Mosk said, taking the canister of sap and staring at Eran with wide eyes.

‘Yes,’ Eran said, sitting on the bed and smiling. His skin was darker with exposure to the sun and the wind, his eyes lively, and Mosk took a step backwards and focused on unscrewing the lid. There was a time when he’d only needed to eat sap once or twice a week. He’d sunk his sap teeth directly into thin branches and willed the tree to release its drippy goodness, and he’d funnel the sap directly into his stomach, so aside from drops here and there, he hardly tasted it. Now he had to drink it like water and knew more flavours than he’d ever known. Now he got hungry every day.

‘Isn’t that dangerous?’

‘Yes,’ Eran said. ‘But they sent some sirens to do it, and they came back with the wrong food. Apparently freshwater fae just know what they like, or something? I think Augus is giving his share of food to Julvia and Ash.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Just…a feeling I have,’ Eran said. ‘He says he isn’t, but I never see him eating, or he never has as much as the others. He tells me he doesn’t have an appetite, but he was doing it before, too. I think it’s why he collapsed sooner than everyone else.’

‘So you’re seeing everyone. Ash and Augus and Julvia,’ Mosk said, a spark of resentment flaring. He really didn’t belong on this journey. He really was just there because of some accident he’d caused in the past, and they were all probably happy that he wasn’t leaving his room because he just…ruined things when he went aboveboard.

‘Gwyn too,’ Eran said, smiling. ‘He’s teaching me things about the sea. But Mosk, you should come up with me tonight.’

‘Why?’ Mosk said, sipping at the sap and turning away. ‘Why? You don’t want anything to do with me. Go back up to everyone else and leave me alone.’

He scowled when Eran sighed behind him. ‘Mosk, I have asked you to spend time with me and you send me away. You tell me to leave. So is it possible that when I respect what you tell me, you’re interpreting it as me not wanting anything to do with you?’

Mosk clutched the canister of sap and squeezed his eyes shut. He was glad that Eran couldn’t see his face. It wasn’t _fair._

‘Mosk…’ Eran said, his voice softer. ‘Please come up with me tonight? They have these gatherings but they’re not the same without you.’

‘How can you say that?’ Mosk exclaimed, turning back to him, hating the earnestness on Eran’s face. ‘How can you pretend that’s true? We’ve never been to gatherings before. You don’t know what they’re like _with_ me, so you can’t say they’re not the same _without_ me. I’ll just make everything worse! I’m not going to go up and magically be happy and all the things that everyone else is even though the world is _ending,_ and your parents are fucking _dead.’_

Eran twitched and looked at the door, and Mosk thought: _Good. Leave. Leave now that you remember who I am._

‘So,’ Eran said slowly. ‘Could it be possible that I want you there with me because you know what that’s like, and the only other person who understands is Julvia, but she’s off with Ondine most of the time? Mosk, I don’t want you to go up there and be…magically happy. I just want you to be yourself.’

‘How can you say that?’ Mosk said, his voice weaker. ‘After the things I say? No one wants that. No one wants me.’

Eran stood, stepped towards him, and Mosk realised that he wasn’t prepared for Eran’s rawness or how _open_ he was, and by the time Mosk had crossed the room to escape it, Eran had a hand around the rope on his wrist. He pulled Mosk back and then took the trailing lead and held it tight, keeping his fingers around Mosk’s wrist.

‘Mosk,’ Eran said, his voice tender, ‘do I have to make you come up there with me? Do I have to remind you?’

Mosk stared down at the rope, at Eran’s hand around his wrist. He forgot he was wearing the rope sometimes, he’d grown so used to it.

‘I’ve thought…’ Eran said, trailing off. ‘Mosk, is it my fault you can’t sleep? With what we did the other day? What I did to you? Was it too much?’

Mosk stared at him, mouth dropping open. _That_ was what Eran thought?

‘Are you stupid?’ Mosk said, breathless.

‘Should I have realised earlier?’ Eran said. ‘You had a nightmare straight after.’

A long pause as they stared at each other, Mosk was horrified. Was that…why Eran hadn’t been coming to see him as much?

‘It’s- I said it wasn’t you,’ Mosk said. ‘I said it so many times! Why didn’t you believe me?’

‘You don’t always tell the truth,’ Eran said softly, carefully, like he didn’t want Mosk to feel judged. But Mosk felt the weight of it all the same. He tried to jerk his hand away, but Eran wouldn’t let go.

‘You’re coming up with me tonight,’ Eran said.

‘I won’t like it,’ Mosk said. ‘I’ll hate it. And then you’ll hate that you brought me up there.’

‘Okay,’ Eran said, looking like he really didn’t mind. Mosk stared down at the hand around the rope on his wrist, looked back up at Eran.

‘You could fuck me instead,’ Mosk said.

‘I know,’ Eran said placidly. Why did he _get_ like this? Mosk didn’t understand. It was like Eran found something inside himself, or found something when he was next to Mosk, it was infuriating. ‘But we’re not doing that. You’re coming up with me, and you’re probably going to hate it, and that will be okay.’

‘No!’ Mosk shouted, jerking his wrist hard.

Eran didn’t let go. Instead, Mosk dragged him forwards, until Eran was so close that Mosk could feel the heat of him all around. It was nothing like the dreams of the ice. Unwittingly, Mosk leaned forwards, just enough to feel millimetres more of it touch his skin.

‘Put your other hand on me,’ Eran said, and Mosk stared down at Eran’s bare feet and shook his head. ‘I wasn’t asking, Mosk.’

So Mosk lifted his arm like Eran had compelled him, and he placed his palm flat by Eran’s left collarbone, leaving it there over his clothing.

‘Good,’ Eran said. ‘That’s good, Mosk. Keep it there just for a minute, okay?’

Mosk shrugged, didn’t understand how he could feel like he was flying apart whenever Eran was in the room, and then feel this too.

‘I wish I could touch you the way I want to,’ Eran said, sighing, and Mosk tensed, but Eran didn’t touch him at all except for where his hand gripped him and kept him in place. He wanted to reply, but he couldn’t think of what to say. That he wanted to like the idea of it? That the person he was before Olphix and Davix probably would have liked that, but he didn’t know? That aside from Chaley and his mother, and on rare occasions his brothers, no one had ever touched him until Olphix and Davix came along? That when he’d imagined sex, it was nebulous and strange, and nothing like what wild animals did, and by the time he’d experienced it, he no longer cared about it?

It was all too hard to say.

‘Come up with me,’ Eran said, and Mosk nodded.

He didn’t know how to say that he’d go anywhere with Eran, if he used the right tone of voice.

*

When they went up, the sun was setting on the horizon, shafts of light splitting through the clouds and creating crepuscular rays that turned patches of the deep blue sea to glowing gold. Mosk stared at that instead of the fae around them, because even he could tell some of them didn’t belong on the ship. They must have come when they’d anchored.

Eran didn’t let go of his wrist, which meant Mosk had to walk close to him the entire time. He shrank away from people, bumping into Eran’s shoulders a couple of times, and each time Eran murmured:

‘It’s okay.’

Mosk hated it, and he hated that he wanted it. He wasn’t a child, he didn’t need someone to soothe him just because there were too many people on the ship. The ocean wasn’t as nice when there were so many people around. Everything just became too busy. The sound of the waves slapping against the boat, of people talking, the sounds of the shrouds and sails, the rigging creaking, the ropes, the wood as it shifted, the water as it trickled and dripped. The ship was never, ever silent. But at least when there were less people, the noises it made weren’t as threatening.

In the distance, as the sun set like a glowing golden coin on the horizon, he could hear sirens singing, their steady song harmonising and stirring his blood. Their magic was strong and prickly, and felt by everyone on the ship when they sang. They didn’t sing to hunt, not now, but the Seelie and Unseelie sirens always lived together, and compulsions were embedded in their music. Right now, he thought they might be singing about battle, or pride, and he wanted to stopper his ears.

‘Their songs are a lot,’ Mosk said.

‘They are,’ Eran said. ‘They sing almost every evening. It can be really great sometimes, but they sung about water last night and I wanted to disappear. It felt like I was drowning.’

Mosk looked at Eran in shock. Eran only stared ahead and kept walking them away from what seemed to be the biggest gathering. It grew dark as they went, reminding Mosk of just how unnaturally long and large the ship was. They walked up the steps at the stern, but even here where it was quieter, there were still sparkling lights clinging in the darkness. Even the barnacles and shells shone. When Mosk looked down into a wet corner, he saw an octopus clinging, patterned in rings of vivid, fluorescent blue.

‘It looks poisonous,’ Mosk said, staring at it.

Eran turned and made a sound of surprise, sidestepping and knocking Mosk’s body accidentally. But the octopus was several steps away, and didn’t seem to be angry at them.

‘There’s all kinds of things on this ship,’ Eran said under his breath, as he pulled Mosk away a bit faster. ‘Ondine’s Seelie, but honestly, it’s a mix in the crew, I didn’t expect that. But it’s different in the sea. Apparently even Albion had Seelie and Unseelie in his sea palace.’

Mosk frowned, because he’d heard things like that, but the way Eran said it…

‘So then why…was he so mean to Gwyn?’

‘I know,’ Eran said, looking at him, his eyes glowing amber in the night. ‘Ondine said it was because Albion experienced it as the betrayal of a friend first, and then the betrayal of the Seelie second. Albion has a really firm idea of how Seelie and Unseelie fae should act, but if he knows they’re Unseelie from the outset… But that Gwyn lied to him, and he thought they were friends. But I didn’t know that. Albion and Gwyn were friends?’

‘Albion was on his Inner Court,’ Mosk said. ‘Ondine too. I didn’t know that Gwyn had so many alliances with the sea fae.’

‘That’s just it,’ Eran said, ‘I don’t think he did. I mean maybe everyone thought he did once. But Gwyn seems really frustrated that he doesn’t know much here, and he’s learning a lot too. I’m starting to think he picked them because he didn’t really trust any land fae. I don’t know. That can’t be right, can it? He had Oengus and others too.’

‘I don’t know,’ Mosk said, finding it easy to say. After all, he was the one who knew the least out of all of them. ‘I don’t really know anything about that.’

They walked past one of the shelter decks, and then several cabins, until they were high up on the smaller afterdeck. Mosk was surprised to see Augus up there, leaning against the railing with his back to it, black mane whipping in the wind. He held onto a cane, body sagging towards it, and seemed content watching what was happening. In front of him, Gwyn and Ondine were talking to each other, Awan was leaning against Uhina, the warrior Mosk remembered meeting when they’d just been rescued. She turned and noticed them, lifting a hand in greeting. Ash was there too, reclining in a deck chair, reading a huge tome.

‘We’re going here?’ Mosk said. ‘I thought…’

‘I know,’ Eran said. ‘But it’s quieter. A lot has been happening.’

‘…It’s bad,’ Ondine was saying to Gwyn, she looked at Augus as though to include him. ‘The problem is Albion. When he took over Kingship of the Seelie Court, it divided his sea palace. How could it not? You have Unseelie and Seelie, and suddenly Albion’s made a partisan call, exits his own palace, taking only his trusted Seelie advisors and leaves the Unseelie ones behind.’

‘So the Unseelie fae have been revolting,’ Gwyn said, looking at Mosk and Eran, expression sober, and then turning back to Ondine. ‘And the House of Atros is leading this?’

‘They charge high sea tolls,’ Ondine said, sighing. ‘Almost no one can afford them, which stops trade and travel between divisions. To compensate, other territories have had to start charging tolls too. The House of Atros is led by King Turus, and he has always wanted power for himself. His nephews aren’t much better.’

‘Stertes and Tanares,’ Awan said, smiling brightly at Mosk and Eran once he’d noticed they were there. ‘And their sisters Enaria and Yescha. Though they’re not as power hungry. But the nephews very much take after Turus. We can expect to meet one of them. Likely Tanares, since he is sent around to do the direct bidding of Turus. A crossing into Atros territory is inevitable, we’re trying to put it off for as long as possible.’

‘But of course,’ Augus said, his voice thin, ‘it means paying the tolls of short-shrifted Houses in the meantime. We cannot just…find a small ship and sail quickly without being caught until we reach our destination?’

‘No,’ Ondine said, sighing. ‘With your lake, even if you were right at the bottom of it, tell me how unaware you were of what rested on the surface?’

Augus grimaced. ‘If I was in my home, I didn’t think about it as much. But I could tell when someone had entered straight away. And if I was in the water, I could feel leaves settling above. I take it…?’

‘It’s the same,’ Ondine said. ‘Except with entire populations of fae. Not just one fae in a lake. But tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. And all of them clustered towards the coast, because just as land fae have always found themselves living near coastlines, so too do sea fae. Every sea fae around knows we’re here. It is only their fear and respect for the Mantissa that stops us from being accosted every two seconds, but the large Houses will come.’

‘We cannot bankrupt the Unseelie Court on this journey,’ Augus said, looking at Gwyn with some concern. ‘That is what they will seek to do.’

‘Honestly,’ Ash said from the deck chair, ‘I doubt they fucking know how cashed up we are. We’ve been spreading rumours for like a decade that we have wicked amounts of funding. Which is great for reputation and shit but obviously now is going to be a disaster. Chances are, if they think we’re rich, they’ll rob us blind. If they suspect we’re poor, they’ll break us for power, right?’

‘About the sum of it,’ Gwyn said, glowering at the horizon.

‘I’m _so_ glad we came to the sea,’ Augus said, humming like he was pleased. But his expression was vicious, and Mosk knew that Mallem used to look at him like that sometimes. A smile on his face, coldness in his heart. He looked at Gwyn, but Gwyn seemed grumpy, not hurt.

‘I mean,’ Ash interrupted before Gwyn could speak, ‘we’re not dead or being actively tortured so it’s like…prospects aren’t all bad.’

Ondine laughed, walking over to Eran and Mosk, taking both of their hands in hers. Mosk stared in shock, thinking that if he’d known that was coming, he wouldn’t have offered his hand at all. But Ondine had a way. Was she reading their palms now? Was his future still black?

‘Look at you both,’ Ondine said, gazing up at them. ‘Eran, you’ll have to dance with me some night! I bet you can dance up a storm.’

She drew him away from Mosk, and he watched in shock as she pulled him into a twirl. Eran, laughing easily, placed a hand on her hip and held up her arm, spinning her lightly across the wooden planking. Mosk felt it like a knife to his heart, and he stepped backwards until he was against the railing, near Augus.

‘Jealous?’ Augus murmured, voice so soft that it could have been the wind.

Mosk stared at him, eyes narrowing, but Augus was staring ahead, that smirk of before on his face.

‘No,’ Mosk said, as Ondine and Eran laughed together, and Ash put his book down and joined them, spinning first Ondine, then Eran. Then Uhina joined them, Awan too, and Gwyn only rolled his eyes and walked a distance away. Mosk thought he did it to escape, but then he realised he’d cleared a space for the others to dance.

‘You’re jealous,’ Augus said in a light, sing-song voice.

‘ _No,’_ Mosk hissed. ‘Shut up!’

‘Darling,’ Augus said, turning to look at him, his eyes glowing a faint hungry green. ‘Did you just tell me, the once-King of the Unseelie, consort of the current King, and most powerful waterhorse in all the land, to _shut up?’_

Fear stole over him, thick and nauseating, burrowing into him like sudden fungal filaments. Augus’ grin was even worse. But as Mosk tore his eyes away, he saw the walking stick and looked back up in confusion.

‘Can you not tell the difference between someone making easy sport of you, and a genuine threat?’ Augus said, his eyebrows lifting. ‘Interesting.’

‘Stop it,’ Mosk whispered, easing away from him.

Augus reached out and took Mosk’s wrist before he could snatch it away, his thumb ending in a wicked, short claw curved over the rope.  

‘Don’t go,’ Augus purred. ‘Stay a moment.’

‘What are you doing?’ Mosk said.

‘Come closer,’ Augus said, and Mosk wanted to say no, but Augus was stronger than him even like this. He dragged Mosk closer, until he could trail his palm up Mosk’s arm. With the laughter and the dancing in the background, Mosk felt unseen, unheard, lost. He stared at Augus and wanted to run, _run_ away. How did others just handle having him around? How did others-?

‘What’s going on?’ Eran said sharply. His voice was so much closer than Mosk realised.

Augus’ mouth curved in a half-smile.

_‘You’re welcome,’_ he mouthed to Mosk, before turning and breaking the spell of eye contact between them. ‘Eran! Come to take this morsel away from me?’

‘What?’ Eran said, walking close enough that he could take Mosk by the hand. ‘Morsel? Mosk, are you okay?’

‘Huh?’ Mosk said, still staring at Augus.

He’d done it on purpose? Because Mosk was jealous? But…

‘Come here,’ Eran said, shooting a vicious glare at Augus. But Augus only stared back, an innocent smile on his face like he’d never been anything more than a genial companion. ‘Stop messing with him just because you’re bored. If you’re in pain or tired, you should tell someone so they can help you with the pain, or go get some rest.’

Augus’ easy expression shifted, and he tilted his head at Eran. ‘Fascinating.’

Eran bit out a small sound of frustration, and pulled Mosk some distance away until they were in the shadows. Ondine, Awan, Uhina and Ash were still dancing. Gwyn was sitting in the deck chair Ash had occupied, reading whatever book Ash had been reading.

‘Did he hurt you?’ Eran said. ‘Did he say anything to hurt you?’

‘No,’ Mosk said, distracted.

‘Hey,’ Eran said, touching the knuckle of a finger beneath Mosk’s chin. The touch was gentle, and it was one he’d experienced before, both Olphix _and_ Davix had used it. Mosk jerked back and hissed, scratching sharply at his chin once, hurting himself to get rid of the touch. ‘Mosk.’

‘I’m tired,’ Mosk said. ‘I don’t like this. I said I’d hate it and I hate it.’

‘Okay,’ Eran said. ‘Okay. Give it another ten minutes, and we’ll leave.’

Mosk wanted to stamp his foot, wanted to insist they leave _now_ , but he was still painfully aware that Augus had just done something for him. Unless he’d misread it? But he knew Augus wasn’t interested in him like that. He just _knew._ He took a tiny step closer to Eran and felt ill when he realised that he _was_ jealous. It was ugly and awful, and it wasn’t fair or right, because Eran deserved to be happy and dancing with the others. Not standing there in the dark with him.

His breathing was shaky and locked up in his throat. The dreams of Davix had given him a constant bad feeling, standing next to Augus like that hadn’t helped. He kept thinking something was going to go wrong.

‘Do you ever feel like…something is coming,’ he said, looking up at Eran. His voice died when he saw the way Eran stared down at him. His eyes alive under the cover of night, his face grave and bright all at once.

‘Something?’ Eran said, turning to face him as Ondine laughed and waved goodbye to the group, jogging towards some other part of the ship, leaving Awan and Ash spinning in each other’s arms, Uhina stamping some rhythm into the wood with her spear. It was a jovial bubble that brushed up against him, but nothing could touch him when Eran stared at him like that.

‘I can’t remember…’ Mosk said.

_I can’t remember what I was going to say._

‘You look pretty tonight,’ Eran said, and Mosk felt something fluttery and thick leap in his throat. Uncomfortable, but not unwanted.

‘What?’ Mosk whispered.

‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Eran said, smiling at him.

_No. No, not this._

‘I heard,’ he said, his voice shrinking until he was barely speaking. He had to leave. He thought his hands might be shaking and Eran was still holding one of them. Behind them, Ash was shouting at Gwyn to start dancing, or to at least sing something, and Gwyn was demurring, but laughing, and sounding not at all like he normally did.

‘But I don’t…’ he started.

‘You do,’ Eran said.

‘You can’t say-’

‘I can,’ Eran said, staring at him.

What was happening? He turned a little, staring at Augus, who was watching the others with a warm softness on his face. He looked at Gwyn, who had closed the book and didn’t seem as worried as before. Awan danced with a vibrant energy and he laughed when Ash dipped him with a hand beneath his lower back, and he was still laughing when he gracefully rose and scruffed Ash’s wild, wet hair in his hands.

He watched Uhina take Awan by the hand next, and then they were dancing. Ash began to sing a song in three quarter time with perfect pitch, a rustic, rousing tone that didn’t get swept away on the swift, sharp breezes. Eran stiffened, then turned.

‘I know that song,’ Eran said, disbelief in his voice.

‘Will you sing?’ Mosk said, hardly knowing what he was asking. Eran looked at him in shock. ‘Will you sing? You haven’t in…a long time.’

‘You want me to sing?’ Eran said. ‘You don’t mind?’

‘No,’ Mosk said, paralysed. Something huge was shifting around him and he didn’t know what it was. He still didn’t know as Eran let go of his hand and walked towards the others and picked up the song at the chorus.

Mosk closed his eyes when he heard Eran’s voice. It was so pure and rich and deep. When he forced his eyes open again, he could see that there was something like joy alongside Eran’s uncertainty. He watched the way Ash beckoned him over, and then saw Gwyn mouthing the words – or even maybe singing them under his breath – where he sat on the chair.

How did they do it? How did they come together like that and make it look easy? He wrapped his arms around himself and looked up at the sky.

Something didn’t feel right.

He thought that if he looked at the shell in its drawer down in his room, the moss would be wild and out of control. He was starting to get a sense of what triggered it now, and often checked the shell to be sure. He didn’t know of any other Aur dryad that had such a hard time with their growing magic, and he could only attribute it to being broken, to whatever the Mages had done to him, or maybe some flaw he was born with.

As he stared at the stars, he saw a shadow move across them. Only a small shadow, like the swooping of a seagull, except its underside wasn’t lit up by the boat. He squinted, but he didn’t see it again.

Around him, the comfort of Eran singing, and the sound of shell chimes clinking together musically. His Mamatree and Papatree would string up wood chimes, some of the most complex he’d ever seen. As one walked closer to his home, back before it was burnt to ashes, the music would rise as the winds did. None of the notes discordant. His Mamatree said that trees continued to sing long after they’d died, if you let them.

Eran was dancing, sinuous and beautiful, and Mosk watched him and wished he didn’t feel suspended outside of the moment. But he’d been like this even as a child, well before he’d ever met Olphix and Davix.

He didn’t know how to feel like he was _in_ something, even when he was in it.

His skin prickled, he looked up again, uncertain. What was he even doing here? Why did he have such a strange feeling that something was going to happen?

That shadow passed over the stars again, and he looked down to see if anyone noticed. He saw Gwyn staring up at the same patch of sky, a frown etched into his forehead, the sides of his mouth. He met Mosk’s eyes as he looked down, and Mosk didn’t know if Gwyn looked up because he felt it too, or because he saw Mosk looking up in the first place.

_Something’s coming._

His heart was beating faster and faster. No one else noticed. Mosk thought he heard the sound of wings, but it was just a hank of dried kelp fluttering against the large wooden cabin.

But then he heard it again.

_Wings._

Separate from everything going on, he saw clearly when the huge black bird – a crow, a raven? – winged its way surely along the wraparound deck. It flew at them like an arrow. It was far larger than any normal black bird, and its wings were glossy and bright even by night. They shone violet and blue and green.

Mosk watched as the black bird transformed seamlessly in less than a second, then it was a person _sprinting_ towards Augus, a shining, long, thin sword in the person’s hand. Even as Mosk saw Gwyn getting up in his peripheral vision, even as the singing started to die, Mosk felt the singular intent of the newcomer and it stole his voice and his air, and he could only watch.

Augus’ eyes widened, hadn’t finished widening, and the rapier was already through his heart and sticking out the other side of him. The tall man with his black, spiked hair, feathers growing in it, a wild expression in his black eyes, and black clothing and boots, stood over him breathing heavily.

_‘There,’_ he said, his voice rough and unused. Augus stared up at him, pinned to the railing by the rapier in his chest and the man leaning into him. A clattering sound came as the cane fell from Augus’ fingers to the floor. Then Ash dropped to his knees, hands at his chest. Gwyn was moving, but Mosk couldn’t look away from the man that had been a bird, because he thought he…knew him somehow. Even though it was impossible. Mosk had never seen him before in his life.

‘Revenge,’ the man said. His voice was coarse, but his accent was aristocratic. After a moment he looked down and aside. ‘Is it revenge though?’ he said, almost to himself. ‘I can’t remember. It’s horrifically unclear. But…didn’t you do that too? _Augus._ How I remember you.’

The man stepped backwards gracefully and yanked the rapier clear. Blood bloomed at Augus’ chest. Augus slid to the ground, eyes wide and shocked, mouth open, the gleaming track of a tear down one side of his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter, 'The Raven Prince':
> 
> He shoved the Raven Prince’s open hand down onto the wood and pushed down one of his index fingers, a wild light in his eyes to match the Raven Prince’s fervid, frightened expression. 
> 
> Mosk heard Augus shouting between strangled breaths. 
> 
> ‘Gwyn! _Gwyn_ what are you doing?! Gwyn! _Stop! STOP!’_


	6. The Raven Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags: Amputation
> 
> I have been waiting so damn long to post this chapter. I'm messing with my own posting schedule, but it works out, I can afford to post four chapters this month! He's been such a spectre in the canon as a figure of the past, a part of people's flashbacks or positive memories, a beloved figure to many. Now, for the first time, the Raven Prince joins the Fae Tales canon. I'm so curious to know what people think. Thanks everyone for reading!

_Mosk_

*

The rapier clattered to the ground, hardly any blood on its blade. It had wiped clean when the man had withdrawn it from Augus’ chest, so fine was the metal. Augus stared at the man without looking away, eyes shimmering in horror, a gleam of something that could have been hope. Mosk’s gaze flickered quickly over everyone else. Eran had stilled. Ash was pushing himself upright. Awan and Uhina stared in disbelief.

It was Gwyn’s face that captured him. Where everyone else was still locked into shock at the arrival of the crow-raven-man, Gwyn’s face had turned from surprise to a thunderous rage that turned the air around them to frigid cold. Mosk’s breath stuttered and then stilled in his throat as he felt the full intensity of Gwyn’s bloodlust and murderous intent focus on a single target.

Even the man wasn’t impervious. He turned slowly, heel of his palm at his forehead like he was confused. But he didn’t look at Gwyn long, instead staring around the ship like he didn’t quite know where he was.

‘Raven Prince,’ Gwyn said, his voice hoarse.

‘What?’ the Raven Prince said dismissively. It was a flippant answer to his name.

 _‘How?’_ Augus said, and then he bent double and coughed up blood. It gouted over his lips and speckled across the planks beneath him.

Gwyn lunged. He didn’t go for Augus, instead he grabbed the Raven Prince by the wrist and yanked him down onto the wooden boards. The movement was vicious and violent. The flashing of a blade – Mosk had no idea where Gwyn had gotten it – and Gwyn forcibly dragged the Raven Prince over to the thick wooden railing as he tried to scramble his legs underneath himself. Gwyn was too fast, too brutal.

He shoved the Raven Prince’s open hand down onto the wood and pushed down one of his index fingers, a wild light in his eyes to match the Raven Prince’s fervid, frightened expression.

Mosk heard Augus shouting between strangled breaths.

‘Gwyn! _Gwyn_ what are you doing?! Gwyn! _Stop! STOP!’_

Gwyn brought the knife down with all the intensity of his Kingship, and the knife not only cut off half of the Raven Prince’s index finger, but sliced through the railing causing it to splinter around the Raven Prince’s wrist. Fragments of wood exploded into the air. The Raven Prince gave an abrupt, raw cry of pain, he raised his other hand, fingers in the shape of claws as he directed fury towards Gwyn. Where Gwyn’s energy had turned to indomitable strength, the Raven Prince’s surge of magic was prickling and left Mosk in a daze.

‘Go ahead,’ Gwyn snarled at him, throwing him down onto the floor and stepping on the wrist the Raven Prince had used to attack. ‘Your staff is gone. I’m sure you can take my language. I dare you. I _dare_ you. Do it, do it and watch me tear you apart even without the ability to _speak.’_

The Raven Prince stared down at where his index finger had been. The stub wound was pouring blood. He tried to push himself upright, and Gwyn kicked him down again, issuing orders.

‘Awan, _ropes,’_ he commanded. ‘I want his arms apart and his _fingers_ bound so he can’t twitch them. Make no mistake,’ Gwyn stared down at the Raven Prince. ‘He can still do magic. Gag him.’

The Raven Prince looked up at Gwyn, squinting at him. Behind him, Awan moved quickly, Uhina sprinting off down the wraparound deck.

The Raven Prince went to get up again. Gwyn bent and cuffed him hard on the side of the head.

The Raven Prince collapsed in a heap of black clothing.

Gwyn didn’t even look. He ran to Augus’ side, falling down beside him and pressing his hand to the wound at Augus’ chest. His fingers came away soaked.

‘You need a healer,’ Gwyn said, his voice low, breathless.

‘What did you do?’ Augus said, staring past him. ‘What did you…dare do to the King?’

 _‘I_ am your King!’

Augus blinked bright green eyes back to Gwyn.

‘But…now that he’s back...’

Behind them, Mosk half-watched as Awan had pulled a large, person-sized wooden cross from somewhere and roped the Raven Prince to it with Ash’s help. Eran walked closer to Gwyn and Augus, staring down at them.

‘Is it truly him?’ Gwyn said to Augus. ‘It’s not an impostor?’

‘It’s him,’ Augus said, looking down at his chest. ‘It’s him. I can…I can feel it. Can’t you-? There’s no one in the world… I’m- I can’t… _Lucky_ , I think, that…I’m…Inner Court.’

With that, his eyes rolled back and he passed out. He would have slumped to the ground, but Gwyn eased him down, and when he withdrew his hand from beneath Augus’ back, it was also red. Gwyn pushed himself upright, looking over to the Raven Prince, who was awake and gagged and not even attempting to fight back. He watched them with sharp, bright black eyes that were so knowing that Mosk thought of Davix and took an absent step backwards.

The Raven Prince looked at him sharply, and Mosk stared back, mesmerised.

_The Raven Prince…_

The most beloved Unseelie King, self-titling himself with ‘Prince’ before he’d ever been close to royalty. The one whose Court Gwyn had partially modelled the new Unseelie Court on, gaining the respect of thousands of his patrons. The one that everyone knew Augus had killed in order to gain ruthless access to a throne and Court he didn’t deserve. When Augus reigned, he did so much damage that they’d needed the Seelie King to defeat him. Except that Seelie King had been revealed as Unseelie and then only a short time later, he took Augus on as his consort and everyone wondered if Augus would do it again. Defeat and kill another King.

Only it seemed that Augus hadn’t done it the first time.

Unless the Raven Prince had come back from the dead?  

He was one of the most magical beings on the planet, surely if anyone could return from death, it would be him. So Mosk watched him, feeling that prickly, magical energy around him and his breaths coming shallow, shallower. He felt light-headed.

‘Raven Prince,’ Gwyn said, pushing up from the ground and turning away from Augus. ‘I, Gwyn ap Nudd, hereby take whatever status you are now, and return you to underfae, where you belong.’

Eran gasped, much closer to Mosk than Mosk realised. They all waited for the shifting and changing of power and energy that happened when a King issued a status demotion, but other than what looked like irritation, nothing happened.

The Raven Prince watched with narrowed, calculating eyes, lips parted around the gag, fingers bound individually and spread out on the wooden cross.

Gwyn stared at him for a moment longer, Mosk saw a muscle working in his jaw.

‘We have met true shapeshifters before,’ Gwyn said, his voice ice cold. Mosk had seen him laconic about murdering people. Mosk had seen him angry and he’d seen him upset. But he’d never seen Gwyn like this. If this was what people encountered on a battlefield, no wonder so many of them ran in the other direction. The energy around Gwyn compressed everything. Mosk felt it like fists pushing into his sternum and back, like hands clamping down on his arms and pushing down on the top of his head. It was alarmingly physical.

The Raven Prince raised his eyebrows, his eyes looked like they were smiling.

‘Gwyn,’ Augus rasped, conscious again. ‘Stop this.’

Gwyn didn’t look at Augus, but Mosk did. He was paler than before, his freckles standing out in sharp relief, and he wasn’t able to stand. His lips were blanched of colour.

 _‘Stop,’_ Augus said. ‘You…you can’t treat him like this.’

‘Should I continue to listen to your nonsense?’ Gwyn said. ‘Or should I just wait for the _blood loss_ to knock you out properly?’

The pressure in the air increased and even Eran didn’t say anything. None of them were talking. Gwyn stared at the Raven Prince, most beloved of Unseelie Kings, like he wanted to _kill_ him.

It didn’t make any sense.

 _‘Gwyn,’_ Augus said.

‘Silence,’ Gwyn said calmly, and Augus fell back where he’d been trying to push himself up. He panted softly, then placed both of his hands over his chest and groaned. The Raven Prince’s eyes trailed to Augus, and Mosk couldn’t read the expression on his face anymore, it was softer than before.

The wind ruffled his black hair that grew up almost in spikes, wing and tail feathers grew from his scalp at random, and his clothing was clean though creased.

Gwyn walked up to him and hooked his fingers into the silvery chains around the Raven Prince’s neck. He yanked hard, and two snapped and fell to the ground. One remained, cutting deep enough into Gwyn’s hand that even Mosk could see the droplets of blood that looked black under the night sky as they welled at his knuckles and dripped. They landed over the chains that had fallen to the ground, but Gwyn didn’t seem to feel any pain. He left his hand on the unbroken chain and stared hard at the Raven Prince, but the Raven Prince still watched Augus.

‘Don’t look at him,’ Gwyn said. ‘You don’t _ever_ get to touch him.’

The Raven Prince blinked, and then his eyes slid back to Gwyn, his black eyebrows knitting in what looked like confusion.

Multiple footsteps pelting towards them, and Gwyn withdrew a knife from his belt and held it up against the Raven Prince’s neck as he turned and waited for whoever was coming. The Raven Prince’s nostrils flared, his mouth worked around the gag. Where Gwyn had amputated his finger at the second knuckle, blood painted a line down his hand and wrist, dripping into a pool on the ground beneath him.

Ondine sprinted until she came to a stop, her eyes wide, Uhina and others behind her. She took in everything: Augus on the ground, the Raven Prince on the cross, Ash with his arms folded looking stony, Awan standing with a grim expression nearby looking towards his Captain instead of Gwyn. The King of the Unseelie with a knife at the Raven Prince’s throat.

She stared up at the Raven Prince, walked towards him, and then Mosk saw the way her hands trembled. Her mouth opened but no words came forth. Could they all tell it was him?

‘Release him,’ Ondine said to Gwyn. ‘This is not your ship. This is _my_ ship. You don’t have the authority to string up guests on the Mantissa! Awan, what were you thinking?’

Awan didn’t respond, and Ondine stared at Gwyn, her eyebrows pulling together.

 _‘Release_ him!’

‘No,’ Gwyn said. ‘You don’t know what he’s done, you don’t know what he’s capable of. We have no idea of the circumstances in which he’s returned!’

‘He can’t tell us if you gag him!’

‘He can’t use magic if he’s gagged!’ Gwyn shouted.

‘Gwyn, think clearly, grant _clemency._ If it’s really him, then…’

She stared again at the Raven Prince, and Mosk didn’t understand it. She looked at him like they were friends. But she was Seelie, he was Unseelie, and it wasn’t possible for her to look at him that way, was it? Sure, Seelie and Unseelie fae got along, but he’d been the _King_ once, for thousands and thousands of years, and Ondine had been on Gwyn’s Inner Court.

‘Is it really you?’ she whispered, walking closer. Gwyn grit his teeth together and swung the blade towards Ondine, and she raised her hands.

 _‘Whoa,’_ she said. ‘You want to stay on my fucking ship? Point the knife somewhere else.’

‘He attempted to kill my consort,’ Gwyn snarled. ‘Fetch your healers.’

‘The man who was supposed to have killed him in the first place?’ Ondine said, looking over to Augus. But she turned to Uhina and made a gesture with her hands and Uhina ran off again, presumably to get healers. Mosk stepped closer to Eran, until he could feel Eran’s body heat. The energy around them was spiky, he didn’t like it.

‘No,’ Gwyn breathed. ‘It’s too complex to explain now, but it was suicide by proxy.’

 _‘Gwyn,’_ Augus said, his voice faint and trembling. ‘Gwyn, _don’t-_ ’

He passed out, slumping down into the pool of his own blood, wet mane mixing with the red staining into the planks. The Raven Prince shifted, then seemed to realise just how bound he was. He looked sideways at the dripping site of amputation on his hand, and Ondine folded her arms when she noticed.

‘What did you do?’ she said, her voice civil and forbidding.

‘He kept his Mage staff as a splinter beneath the nail of that index finger,’ Gwyn said calmly. ‘The remainder of the finger should grow back in time.’

‘Release him,’ Ondine said. ‘Or I will toss you off my ship. And you can all swim back to shore. Even _him.’_

She pointed at the unconscious Augus, and Gwyn’s lips pressed together. They stared at each other for a long time.

‘It’s too dangerous,’ Gwyn said finally. ‘Do you think that if we ungag him, he will explain what he’s doing here, _why_ he’s here and by _what means?_ You don’t think he’ll use his magic to harm all of us? You don’t know if this is the work of other Master Mages, like _Olphix.’_

At that, the Raven Prince – who had been testing his bonds – went still. His eyes went wide, and a sharp, quickly masked scent of fear punched into the air before fading.

‘This is my ship,’ Ondine said, and Gwyn tilted his head at her.

‘All right,’ Gwyn said. ‘We’ll leave. I’ll take him with me. He can drown, for all I care. He has a better chance of surviving on board.’

‘At least remove the gag,’ Ondine said. ‘Let him _talk_ to us, explain what’s happening.’

‘Revenge! He said so himself.’

‘He said ‘revenge’ first,’ Eran said, looking between Gwyn and Ondine. ‘But then he seemed confused, and said he couldn’t remember.’

‘Gwyn,’ Ondine said, ‘you _owe_ me. I can make this happen against your will, but who was the one who once told you to call in your debts to corner your prey? _Who_ gave you that suggestion? Well, sweetheart, I’m calling in one of mine. Ungag him now, or consider the debt willingly unpaid and take the consequences for _that_ while swimming back to shore.’

Gwyn bared his teeth, then quickly sheathed his knife at his belt. He walked up to the Raven Prince and roughly removed the gag. The Raven Prince watched Gwyn cautiously.

‘Are they not both dead?’ the Raven Prince said. ‘The two founders of the School of the Staff, are they not both dead?’

‘Olphix lives,’ Gwyn said curtly.

 _‘No!’_ the Raven Prince said, his limbs jerking at the ropes. ‘No! That is impossible! This should never have…’ He shook his head and looked down, staring at the ground, and then looked up at the skies. ‘Did my magic _fail?_ This should not have happened. Wait. You said Olphix lives? So _one_ of them is dead?’

‘Davix,’ Ondine said. ‘Davix was killed just over a year ago.’

‘…But it should never have triggered with just one of them,’ the Raven Prince said to himself. Mosk edged closer to hear him. ‘Why did it happen now? Why now? I don’t understand. And of course,’ he looked up, ‘this is untenable. In what year do I find myself? What season? How long has it been since my reign?’

‘If you think you are going to be the one asking the questions,’ Gwyn said levelly, ‘this will be very entertaining.’

The Raven Prince squinted at Gwyn for a long time, and then looked at Augus, then back at Gwyn.

‘You’re Gwyn ap Nudd, that churl of the An Fnwy estate. Why-?’ The Raven Prince inhaled sharply, and then suddenly burst into bright, rough laughter. It echoed around them. ‘Oh. Oh, _Augus.’_ He turned to look at where Augus was slumped on the ground, now surrounded by two healers that Mosk hadn’t noticed. ‘I knew you’d be a terrible King, but I didn’t expect you to be replaced by the _Seelie._ How the…’

The Raven Prince’s head snapped back to Gwyn and he raked him with his eyes, top to bottom, back up again, and his eyebrows drew together, he pursed his lips. He shook his head a little.

‘ _Oh,’_ the Raven Prince said. ‘I see. I _want_ that story.’

Silence for a long time, and then the Raven Prince looked at his mutilated hand once more and his forehead creased further.

‘Are they not both dead?’ the Raven Prince said again.

‘Olphix lives,’ Gwyn said.

‘They are meant to both be dead!’ the Raven Prince said, and then closed his eyes. ‘It was never supposed to have activated, unless they were both dead. Could he have died without you knowing?’

‘No,’ Gwyn said. ‘There is too much of his magic active in the world, and he currently has all the powers of the classless. As far as we know, he’s nigh on invincible.’

‘And desperate,’ the Raven Prince said to himself. ‘Desperate too, if he’s done that. But not dead?’

‘What was supposed to have activated?’ Gwyn said.

‘Did I do it wrong? Little chance of that,’ the Raven Prince said, tilting his head as he looked around without meeting anyone’s eyes. ‘Though it’s never been done before, and it was entirely experimental, but the _theory_ of it was sound. But then why now? Why now? Maybe the death of one of them was so momentous the spell took it to mean that both had died. Did I link to them incorrectly? Did he _notice?_ No. No…not that. Or he’d be here now.’

The Raven Prince sagged in his bonds, though there wasn’t much give in the ropes in the first place.

‘And you’re Unseelie,’ the Raven Prince said, gaze flickering to Gwyn. ‘Always? Or did they change their geas already? Are fae able to change alignment again? Ah, I can talk about it. Is the geas broken? Can I talk about dragons? Ah, I can. I can. A lot has changed. It was clever of you to take my staff that way, did Augus tell you where I kept it? It wasn’t that much of a secret. Very daring though, well done. It was clever to make the move you did while I was confused.’

‘You’re still confused.’

 _‘Obviously,’_ the Raven Prince said, a little breathless. ‘I have tens of thousands of years of memories pouring into me at the moment and the timeline is _confused._ I don’t think…’

He looked at Augus for a long time.

‘Satisfying,’ he murmured. ‘But incorrect. I didn’t have the complete picture. I still don’t. I may never. I think the spell failed. But I’m here. My magic is mine. The Mages…one of them is dead. You cannot let the other find me. Ever.’

‘Why?’ Gwyn said, so still it was like he was carved of stone.

‘The debt,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘The debt I owe. Debts are a…peculiar event, with Mages like Olphix and Davix. Best to leave this realm instead of pay one, I find. Best to…find a way out.’

Mosk stared at him. He’d tried to do that and failed. But the Raven Prince…he hadn’t? What was the debt he owed? Did he really think Olphix would never come to collect it? Mosk shivered.

The Raven Prince looked to Augus and then closed his eyes slowly, as though he couldn’t bear to see what was before him.

‘Ah, all right, I remember now. I remember. So it is. I made a mistake, and my spell has failed. I’m getting old.’

The Raven Prince didn’t look old at all, but Mosk knew fae ages were strange things. He felt a nostalgic longing just to see him. Was he in a world that was resurrecting the dead? Could his parents come back? Or was it a world that could bring back old, great Kings somehow?

‘Did the Oak King also owe a debt?’ Gwyn said.

The Raven Prince looked at Gwyn then as though he was a marvel, eyes shining with pleasure. ‘Why, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

He looked about again, and then seemed to take in his setting more closely, squinting at the railing.

‘I’m on the Mantissa,’ he said.

‘Do you remember being here before?’ Ondine said, walking close enough that Gwyn shifted his foot on the boards, a scraping sound that made Ondine stop.

‘I think…yes,’ the Raven Prince said, squinting ahead. ‘Many times.’

‘Did you come here for the Mantissa?’ Ondine pressed.

‘No, I came to find my advisor,’ the Raven Prince said.

‘He’s not your advisor anymore,’ Gwyn said firmly.

‘And so,’ the Raven Prince. ‘Nor dead, it seems. And you…Gwyn ap Nudd, we never met, but I know you. War General to the Seelie, making my life difficult. ‘Suicide by proxy,’ yes, astute way of putting it. You’ve discovered me. Not only suicide, my advisor ensured that it didn’t have to be. There was always a chance. Always…’

He had been talking to Gwyn, looking at him with eyes that continued to narrow until he just stared for a long time.

‘Were you born Unseelie? Or did you become Unseelie?’

‘I don’t think-’ Gwyn began.

‘He was born Unseelie,’ Eran said.

 _‘Eran,’_ Gwyn said, staring at him.

‘What’s he going to do?’ Eran said, staring at Gwyn. And oh, Mosk thought, Eran was naïve if he couldn’t feel just what it meant to have the Raven Prince here, now. Maybe it wasn’t something sinister, or evil, but Mosk felt the Raven Prince was no more helpless tied in ropes, and Gwyn knew it too. The Raven Prince was indulging them. ‘He’s tied up. And it’s true, you were born Unseelie.’

‘A hybrid?’ the Raven Prince said, looking at Eran now. ‘I’ve met three. Ambaros and afrit? Interesting. But not surprising. It would have happened eventually. You have a sweet fire to you. But… _born_ Unseelie?’ he turned back to Gwyn. ‘Hidden well, with old lore I expect since it’s the only way to get something past _me._ And of course your life was cultivated so we would never meet and you would never visit the Court. Did you feel the Zahakhar? Or are you still a pet of the Seelie? Have you conquered a Kingdom that isn’t yours?’

Gwyn didn’t look like he’d expected any of those questions and he hesitated, dark blond eyebrows knitting. He looked, briefly, towards Augus. But Augus was still unconscious, one of the fae holding hands over Augus’ chest, a green light flowing into him.

‘You have magic,’ the Raven Prince said to Gwyn in such soft wonder that Mosk took another step forward. ‘You have _so much of it._ But untamed? You have been _wasted._ Wasted. What world is this that I come back to? If you are the Unseelie King, then who rules the Seelie? Crielle?’

‘Albion,’ Ondine said.

 _‘Albion?’_ the Raven Prince said, laughing. ‘He was past his prime when I ruled, and he’s _King?_ Oh. Oh dear.’

The Raven Prince continued to laugh as Mosk marvelled at the way he led the conversation.

‘If you want my story,’ Gwyn said finally, ‘I want yours first. Tell me how you are returned. How you are _whole.’_

‘I’m not whole,’ the Raven Prince said, ‘but if it’s to be a trade, I will tell you a patchwork of my story in the same way I know you shall tell me a patchwork of yours. You were meant to be mine all along. You belonged to me and my Court, and your magic was _mine._ They withheld you from me. I’ll not have you continue what they started.’

‘I didn’t _belong_ to you,’ Gwyn said.

‘You were born Unseelie to a Seelie family,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘You were a ward of my Court, undelivered. Presumably they wanted little to do with whatever you were, since they raised you into a Seelie shape to kill your kin. I may not have met you, little boy, but I knew your mother quite well. And how does she fare?’

‘Augus killed her,’ Mosk said, surprised to hear himself talking. There was something in the Raven Prince’s words and voice that made him want to speak.

When the Raven Prince looked at him again, Mosk wanted to hide, but he wrapped his hands around his torso and stood still and was glad when Eran stood closer to him. The Raven Prince stared at him like he was flipping through the pages inside of him, something searching and knowing all at once. Mosk didn’t think he could ever manage something so effortlessly confident, while tied up like that, with a finger chopped off.

‘The Each Uisge killed Crielle?’ the Raven Prince said finally, not saying anything about whatever he’d seen when he stared at Mosk like that. ‘ _Crielle?’_

‘Yes,’ Gwyn said. ‘I want your story. I have no qualms gagging you again and waiting as long as it takes.’

Mosk thought Ondine would protest, but she didn’t. She looked unhappy, but in that moment, Mosk didn’t think she was upset at Gwyn. It was hard to tell though. He looked across at Eran, alarmed when he saw that amber gaze directed at him instead of the scene before them. So he looked ahead again, feeling breathless, shaken.

‘How much does the world know the truth of what happened to me at the end?’ the Raven Prince said. ‘It will expedite matters.’

‘Augus concealed the truth from everyone except me, and I only discovered that truth ten years ago,’ Gwyn said.

‘He concealed it,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘What did he say exactly? That I was on _sabbatical?’_

‘The fae realm concluded that you’d been killed or disabled, and that he’d forcibly ousted you from the Court to become King. It was considered a profound betrayal. No one could work out how it happened.’

‘And he allowed that?’ the Raven Prince said, eyes darting to Augus fleetingly. ‘Waterhorses are very strange. But a story then? All right. I make no pretence at being a storyteller, I’m only a raven, and we only croak and caw don’t we? Try and find something of use in my words, or don’t, it matters little to me.’

The Raven Prince paused, looking ahead at nothing at all, and for a long time it seemed as though he wasn’t going to share a single thing. But Gwyn didn’t interrupt him, remaining motionless, and Mosk drew a little closer to Eran, waiting.

‘I was disinterested in Kingship,’ the Raven Prince said, ‘and I wished to exit this world and test a theory. Nothing more. If Augus – the Each Uisge – killed me, I was willing to accept that too. I had my doubts he would see it through, but I didn’t think he would choose the weak path he did. Perhaps that’s why the spell failed. I do not know and do not well remember. For thousands of years previous to my absconding from the throne, I had been storing my memories and experiences in the event I was assassinated. I have many enemies and there have been many attempts.’

The Raven Prince laughed a little.

‘Ah, to think! What will things be like now? I cannot say. What a novelty. Now, where was I? Yes. At first, storing my memories was really only a selfish desire to make sure that the languages that I knew and had stolen, created, invented and eaten could be found by someone else skilled enough to find, speak, translate and understand them. I am far more profoundly significant than any mere Rosetta Stone, after all. But as time went on, the fith-fath, or effigy, came to take on something more of myself and I came to see that I could not put so much of myself into something without suffering for it. It was years later when I realised I had, in essence, created a living _faeth fiadha,_ a shroud to conceal myself that was becoming myself. It wasn’t without its side effects, but it kept a part of me concealed from the Nightingale, and made me realise I could experience something like death without actually dying.

‘For what being does not wish to know what death is like?’ the Raven Prince said, black eyes gleaming with an alien hunger. ‘And what being then doesn’t wish to be reborn within himself? To resurrect? But there were caveats. It could not be a true death, or I’d only leave that shade of myself in the world. And I would only permit my resurrection once Olphix and Davix had been killed. Say what you will about them, but they are dangerous to me, and I wished to see a world no longer touched by their active, voracious hands.’

The Raven Prince grunted softly, looking over at his hand again. The pain must have been intense, and in the silence that followed, Gwyn spoke.

‘So Augus removed your memories with the underworld creature and thinking that was as good as death, forced you into raven form, and your body existed while your mind…went into the _faeth fiadha?’_

‘I believe so,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘I don’t remember that part. I suspect that the underworld creature died, for the remainder of memories Augus stole were returned and are returning. I hadn’t expected that my body would be allowed to simply fly around the world. I think I may have _nested._ It took some time when I was returned to myself to figure things out. The memories have not slotted back in neatly or in any kind of order, and I had also locked in a charm that would allow my very last moments to return to me. Until then, I had assumed…Augus had harmed me in bad faith. But it is also a kind of satiety to stab an Each Uisge in the heart, a joy you shouldn’t dismiss until you’ve tried it.’

‘I see,’ Gwyn said.

‘If I lay enough bait out, you’ll snap up a bit eventually,’ the Raven Prince said, grinning briefly, wildly. ‘As it is, I know I am no longer King, I have very little understanding of the world as it is now except that I can feel the filth of their magic upon it still. At least some of it has broken. I was never truly killed. Augus preserved me, and he did not know I stored my memories and self in a way that allowed me to return.’

‘So you’re a shade of yourself, in your actual body,’ Gwyn said.

‘No,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘I am myself. That was the wonder of the spell. I poured most of me into the _faeth fiadha,_ and then what was leftover, my essential _self,_ would only travel to it once I encountered mortal danger. I tagged that to my Kingship. So that if my body or self felt the Kingship vanishing from my body, I would stream all of my souls elsewhere. It would have been ineffective if I’d been assassinated while King, but I knew…’

The Raven Prince looked to Augus.

‘Well, I suppose I simply knew how it would happen.’

‘Because you engineered it.’

‘Yes,’ the Raven Prince said.

‘Even though you knew he’d be a terrible monarch.’

‘Well, yes,’ the Raven Prince said, laughing. ‘The Unseelie were spoiled by me for ages, let them see what they had learned to take for granted. Besides, I had never intended to be King _forever._ I suppose Gulvi was killed then.’

‘She’s my Queen-in-Waiting,’ Gwyn said calmly. There was something strangely triumphant on his face when the Raven Prince looked at him in shock.

‘And Augus?’ the Raven Prince said.

‘My consort,’ Gwyn said.

‘So you, who in truth actually _belong_ to me, also took my-’

Gwyn walked up to him calmly and backhanded him across the face with such force that the sound smacked hard into the air. The Raven Prince slumped, unconscious, in the ropes.

 _‘Gwyn!’_ Ondine exclaimed, and Gwyn turned to her as he walked away.

‘If you trust him, you’re an idiot. I’ll not tolerate the blatant disrespect of one of my citizens towards me, no matter that he was King in the past. That is something you do not get to interfere with, Ondine, even if I’ll allow him to stay on this ship. Make no mistake, I would have been just as happy to tow his unconscious body through the sea to shore. This may be your Kingdom, but the entirety of the _Unseelie_ are my domain, even if the sea fae resent it. Perhaps they should have made more efforts to allow land fae to access their world and cultures, instead of zealously protecting themselves in an insular, mocking manner while insulting those who dare to live on soil instead of in water.’

He turned to Ash, who had stayed silent throughout. Ash had a hard, bright glint in his eye, and he didn’t seem upset with Gwyn at all.

‘You seem well,’ Gwyn said finally. ‘So Augus will be all right?’

‘Yeah,’ Ash said. ‘It’s not fatal. My chest hurts but I’m totes good to go, whatever you want.’

‘Watch him tonight,’ Gwyn commanded. ‘If anyone attempts to untie him, use your dra’ocht and compulsions to stop them, fetch me immediately.’

‘Fucking absolutely,’ Ash said. ‘There’s no love lost between him and me.’

‘I know,’ Gwyn said. They both shared hard smiles.

He gave one last, hard look to Ondine, as though daring her to contradict him, and then Gwyn went straight to Augus and picked him up in the middle of the healing being performed.

‘Come,’ Gwyn said to the healers. ‘He should not be around the one who betrayed him so profoundly. He can be healed in my room. He needs more rest.’

Ondine sighed once he and the healers were gone. ‘I guess I can see why he’s grumpy. I didn’t know a lot of that. And I still don’t know a lot of it. I’m going to need to speak to him later. Awan, he’s not wrong, can you put a two-fae guard on the Raven Prince please? He’ll need to come out of the bindings sooner rather than later, but let’s follow Gwyn’s orders for now. He may see sense eventually.’

‘Agreed,’ Awan said, bowing to her briefly and then running off.

‘And so,’ Ondine said, placing her hands on her hips as she stared up at the unconscious Raven Prince. ‘You’re back on the Mantissa again, my raven. I hope it can be a safe haven again, as it has been. And as for you two,’ she turned to Mosk and Eran. ‘Go and rest now. There’s nothing you can do here, and standing before an unconscious, beloved once-King will make none of us happy.’

Mosk jolted when Eran took his wrist by the rope around it, and then clasped the leash instead. He knew that he couldn’t stay, but as they left, he couldn’t help but look back, wanting to be around the strange, charismatic fae a bit longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter, 'Tell Me A Story:'
> 
> ‘Why not you? What’s your name? Tell me.’ 
> 
> ‘Uh,’ Mosk said. 
> 
> The Raven Prince tilted his head, eyes bright, and then it was like the very atmosphere around them seemed to sparkle. Eran looked around, feeling like he’d fallen into some witching hour. 
> 
> ‘Small sapling, please tell me,’ the Raven Prince said. 
> 
> ‘Mosk Manytrees,’ Mosk said. 
> 
> Eran tugged on Mosk then, realising that the Raven Prince’s glamour could be very persuasive if he wanted it to be. 
> 
> ‘Mosk, we should go.’ 
> 
> Mosk didn’t move.
> 
> ‘Don’t go,’ the Raven Prince said, warm and charming. 
> 
> Eran couldn’t remember why he wanted to leave.


	7. Tell Me A Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh fucking darn it I'm happy that the Raven Prince is back. So happy. aslkfjas Your responses on the last chapter gave me so much life. I've been really worried about my capacity to write lately (due to exhaustion and ill health and stuff) and you folks went and helped revive me so thank you. <3

_Eran_

*

All at once, it became easy to find Mosk, because when he wasn’t in his room he was often on the afterdeck near the Raven Prince, watching him like he’d been bewitched. For a long time, Eran thought that was _exactly_ what had happened.

But the Raven Prince didn’t seem to pay Mosk much attention, and Mosk didn’t talk to him. He just watched.

‘Don’t you think it’s dangerous to spend so much time around him?’ Eran said, keeping his voice hushed as he drew Mosk to the other side of the afterdeck. What he assumed would be a safe distance.

The Raven Prince watched them, black irises gleaming.

‘Why? You didn’t,’ Mosk said blankly. ‘You were the one who moved against Gwyn. You were on Ondine’s side when she wanted him to be released.’

‘Yes, but…’ Eran looked past Mosk’s shoulder to the fae who had such a strange energy that it was hard to know himself around him. No wonder no one doubted who he was. The legends were all larger than life, but the Raven Prince’s energy – even when he was bound, even without a staff – was like nothing he’d felt before in his life. He’d seen a shade of Olphix in Oengus’ tower, and even that hadn’t been the same. ‘Mosk, why are you here all the time?’

A day had passed, Awan taking the time to inform Eran that Ondine and Gwyn were vociferously arguing over the state of the Raven Prince. Gwyn was pushing to have him recognised as a prisoner of the Court, and Ondine was pushing to have him recognised as an Unseelie citizen with full access to Court rights, including begging for asylum.

Augus recovered too slowly in his room, the wound in his heart pushing back all his progress so that he was dependent on saltvarra again. Once more he couldn’t talk without coughing, he couldn’t walk except only the shortest distances.

Eran didn’t like how the presence of the Raven Prince had disrupted everything. Other fae kept coming to sneak a glimpse at him. The Unseelie fae on the ship were already referring to him as the true King.

‘He escaped,’ Mosk whispered.

Eran stared at him. ‘What?’

‘Their debt,’ Mosk said. ‘He found a way out. I don’t think the Mages killed anyone he- he loved... He found a way out.’

A pooling of grief in Eran’s chest followed those simple, small words. Eran didn’t have the heart to try and get Mosk to leave after that.

*

The Raven Prince began to take an interest in Mosk. At first it was simple, even though every word he spoke set Eran on edge. He bristled to see someone like the Raven Prince turn his attention to Mosk, who was vulnerable to powerful people.

‘You’re an immature Aur Dryad with a stolen heartsong,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘But you’re of age. Forget to bond with a tree?’

Mosk had been sipping at a canister of sap, but he stopped quickly, eyes flicking to Eran as though looking for reassurance. Eran wasn’t sure he liked that it filled him with a warm pride and possessiveness to have Mosk look to _him_ for reassurance.

‘Yes,’ Mosk said. ‘Your Majes-’

‘Ah,’ the Raven Prince said, his eyebrows lifting, ‘is that how fickle the Unseelie are nowadays? You have your King, the one the Unseelie Court has earned for itself. One who would dare strike a beloved monarch as meanly and unfairly as he did.’

The Raven Prince still bore a bruise on his cheek where Gwyn had slapped him. Gwyn hadn’t returned since, not to give the Raven Prince his side of the story, not to argue with him again. Eran realised that Gwyn treated him cautiously by not showing up at all and trusting the guard and Ash – who was often there – to warn him if anything went wrong. Eran also knew it was an insult.

‘He did snap up the bait I lay after all. What a cruel beastly fae,’ the Raven Prince said. Then his lips slowly curved into a malicious smile. ‘What interesting times have befallen us that he is now our Unseelie King and from what I can tell, not entirely hated.’ 

‘He saved us from Augus and the Nightingale,’ Mosk said, clutching the canister of sap to himself.

‘Did he?’ the Raven Prince said, his voice softening like he was talking to a _child._ But there was a slender, knife’s edge in his voice, and Eran wanted to grab Mosk by the collar and drag him away. ‘Will you share that story with me, young Dryad?’

‘Maybe…someone else…’ Mosk said.

‘Why not you? What’s your name? Tell me.’

‘Uh,’ Mosk said.

The Raven Prince tilted his head, eyes bright, and then it was like the very atmosphere around them seemed to sparkle. Eran looked around, feeling like he’d fallen into some witching hour.

‘Small sapling, please tell me,’ the Raven Prince said.

‘Mosk Manytrees,’ Mosk said.

Eran tugged on Mosk then, realising that the Raven Prince’s glamour could be very persuasive if he wanted it to be.

‘Mosk, we should go.’

Mosk didn’t move.

‘Don’t go,’ the Raven Prince said, warm and charming.

Eran couldn’t remember why he wanted to leave.

Ash, who had been sitting nearby, suddenly stood. The Raven Prince looked at him too, the sweet air around them felt heavier, alluring.

‘Ugly runt, poisonous Glashtyn, won’t you stay? Don’t you want to hear the story?’

Ash stared at the Raven Prince where he was tied to the cross and didn’t seem to register the insult. But he looked unhappy, troubled, and the Raven Prince’s smile grew.

‘You’re very strong, Glashtyn, but even Crielle couldn’t glamour me. Stay, just a moment, hear the story. I promise you no harm will come to them.’

‘You promise,’ Ash said.

‘I swear it,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘I don’t plan to hang myself with the inches of rope I have left to me, and you’re a fool if you think so. Sit down. Show me some trust. I was once your King.’

Ash’s face twitched, and the Raven Prince shifted in his ropes and that starry, sparkling feeling swelled.

‘You like stories, don’t you? Let’s hear Mosk’s.’

‘I know what you’re doing,’ Ash said, his voice strained.

‘You are _very_ strong,’ the Raven Prince said, like he’d never been more pleased. ‘You might even be stronger than me. You must need it to make up for a lake that spat you out unfinished and too ugly to use your beauty to charm a single soul. But look! I’m tied up and you are free to go and report me for wanting to hear a story. It sounds foolish, doesn’t it?’

‘Just…the story,’ Ash said.

‘Just the story,’ the Raven Prince said.

‘I’m still…going to tell…Gwyn.’

‘Tell him,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘Tell him that I used my not inconsiderable powers to do nothing more than charm a story out of an immature Aur Dryad, instead of gaining my freedom, which you now know I can do in an instant if I so much as wish it.’

The alarm Eran felt was dull, but it was there nonetheless. Mosk hadn’t looked away from the Raven Prince once, and when the Raven Prince turned his attention away from Ash, back to them both, Eran slid an arm around Mosk’s shoulders. Mosk didn’t fight him and Eran dug his fingers in, protective, annoyed that Mosk kept coming back only to be placed in a position like this.

‘Tell me how Gwyn saved us from Augus and the Nightingale,’ the Raven Prince said.

‘Okay,’ Mosk said easily. ‘Someone else would tell it better. But the Oak King…gave his Kingship to Gwyn ap Nudd, his War General, and Gwyn didn’t want it. Everyone knew. But he took it anyway because he had no choice. The Oak King didn’t know how to defeat Augus or the Nightingale, and Augus was destroying the land, and the Nightingale was trying to make a third Court. Or…that’s what people said. I didn’t…I wasn’t there.’

‘That’s all right,’ the Raven Prince said soothingly. ‘The stories people tell, the mythos they develop for themselves, that’s important too.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘Augus invited the Nightingale into his Court, and-’

‘ _Augus?’_ the Raven Prince said, the easy, warm expression suddenly turning chilling. ‘He did that? Why?’

His voice was no longer charming but incisive, cutting.

‘I-I don’t know.’

Ash stepped forwards until he was alongside Mosk and Eran, and then he stopped and folded his arms. ‘Maybe he made a debt when he was in the underworlds, an exchange for his fucking freedom. Or maybe he just had Stockholm Syndrome. Ever heard of it?’

The Raven Prince looked between Ash and Mosk. Impossibly, he seemed paler than before. Then, it was as though he hadn’t been shocked at all, looking once more completely in control of himself.

‘I think he may have outwitted me.’

‘Augus?’ Ash said.

‘The Nightingale,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘All right. Then tell me, Mosk Manytrees, of the great Manytrees legacy, what happened next?’

‘Gwyn defeated the Nightingale first,’ Mosk said. ‘He took a mouse lad that could work locks and they tricked the Nightingale into the underworlds and locked him up again. Gwyn came back and defeated Augus, forcing him to surrender his Kingship.’

‘How?’ the Raven Prince said.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Ash said sharply.

‘Ah, then it does. So _how?’_ the Raven Prince said.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Ash said again. His voice was shakier than before. Whatever dra’ocht the Raven Prince was having to use, it made even Eran want to give an answer he didn’t have. But Eran could feel Ash’s glamour too, warm and robust, like a sun-hot stone that wouldn’t bend before a breeze.

The Raven Prince stared at him for a long, lingering time. ‘Then tell me, at least, who else knows aside from you and Augus?’

‘ _It…doesn’t…matter,’_ Ash ground out.

‘Tch, I’ll never understand why the Each Uisge didn’t just kill your misshapen form when you came out of that lake. I’m sure it’s got something to do with his grievously soft heart, which was its own flaw. Season of Turning, it does like to play tricks. Now, Mosk, continue please. You were saying that Gwyn defeated Augus, by forcing him to surrender his Kingship. And then…?’

Eran could feel how tense Mosk was. Knew he would hate being put on the spot like this, knew that the Raven Prince’s glamour and Mosk’s own need to impress him placed him in a difficult position.

‘Then Gwyn threw Augus into the Seelie Court dungeon and left him there without seeing him, or allowing him any visitors, for nearly a year. But then…um, one day, Gwyn was taken before a full Seelie Court and he was demoted by a member of his Inner Court, Albion, and-’

‘Who else did Gwyn put on his Inner Court?’ the Raven Prince said.

‘Ondine,’ Mosk said.

‘And…?’

‘Just Ondine and Albion,’ Mosk said. ‘He only ever had two people on his Inner Court when…when everyone thought he was Seelie. Everyone said it was strange but maybe it was about sea treaties. But it doesn’t seem to have been.’

‘I cannot wait to hear that fool’s version of this,’ the Raven Prince said, nearly to himself. Eran was left wondering which fool. Augus? Gwyn? Someone else?

‘Um, so, Albion demoted him to underfae because it was discovered that Gwyn had been ah, well, everyone said Augus and Gwyn were colluding. They realised Gwyn was hiding his alignment with an aithwick from a young age and they discovered he was Unseelie. Before that, Gwyn released Augus after changing Augus’ status from underfae to something higher so he could survive, and he soul-bonded him with Ash with the agreement that Augus would never harm the Unseelie Kingdom again, and he gave Augus the gift of invisibility – though we only found that out later – and he-’

‘Invisibility?’ the Raven Prince said.

Eran wanted to tell him to stop interrupting.

‘From the mighty Tigbalan,’ Mosk said.

‘I apologise,’ the Raven Prince said drily, ‘but last I knew, Gwyn ap Nudd was a warring, oafish, cod’s head of a General who was an effective killing machine, yes, and a not entirely terrible strategist, but nothing more than that. Not a scholar. Not skilled in the arts. Not anything more than a post-script at the end of the illustrious An Fnwy bloodline, if _illustrious_ is the right word to employ. But what would I know? And so, please tell me, _any_ of you, how Gwyn ap Nudd has such alliances with someone like Ondine, let alone _Tigbalan_ , to be gifted invisibility for the Each Uisge whom I’m assuming at this point was widely hated? Was he widely hated?’

‘Of course,’ Mosk said. ‘Augus has dealt with a lot of assassination attempts but it’s not so bad now that he’s a diplomat again and Gwyn has vouched for him. And…Gwyn has alliances everywhere. On both sides. He’s known almost everyone we’ve met so far and he knows how to speak a lot of languages. He was an advisor to Gulvi when he made her Queen and-’

‘He made Gulvi Queen?’ the Raven Prince said flatly. ‘After Augus?’

‘And me,’ Ash said, smiling a little. ‘We were co-monarchs.’

‘Ah,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘Yes, I…definitely need to hear his version of this, I think. Oh well. We make do, don’t we? Mosk, continue.’

‘So…’ Mosk said. ‘Well, that’s the story.’

‘No, please, I think I’d really rather know how Gwyn became King of the Unseelie Court after all.’

‘I don’t really know,’ Mosk said. ‘He asked for asylum in the Unseelie Court and then he was made King and he made his Inner Court, and it was Augus, Ash, Gulvi and Fenwrel. He hasn’t added anyone else since then. It’s been a decade. It’s been the best Court since…since yours.’

‘Fenwrel,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘Not…the granddaughter of Fluri? Not that Fenwrel?’

‘That Fenwrel,’ Mosk said. ‘She’s a Master Mage. I don’t like her.’

‘Tell me, how did an Unseelie fae who deceived the entire Seelie Court for so long, end up on the Mantissa, with Ondine not wanting to kill him? At what point…? Did he use a _spell?_ Not his own magic surely, it is all crude and unworked. At least one of you here in front of me is Seelie, so tell me, _hybrid_ , why aren’t the Seelie moving against him?’

‘They do,’ Eran said, the words spilling easily as the Raven Prince directed his attention to him. ‘But it depends on who they are. We’ve been attacked on our journey because Gwyn is Unseelie. But there have also been Seelie fae who have taken us in and sheltered us, like Oengus Og, and now Ondine.’

‘I find I’m bored now,’ the Raven Prince said, sighing.

With that, the heavier, glittering atmosphere receded.

‘Fucking _hell_ ,’ Ash said heavily.

‘Mosk,’ Eran said, jostling him with the arm around him. Mosk seemed to notice the touch for the first time, then flinched away. But after a moment, he nodded, he turned and walked away from the Raven Prince.

Eran followed, looking behind him as he went. Ash stood there like he was paralysed, the Raven Prince’s eyes were closed.

Eran didn’t like how bleached of colour the world seemed now that he was no longer within that glamour.

*

The next day, Eran was surprised that Mosk went right back to the Raven Prince. The fae shifter was like a magnet, and Eran had never seen Mosk leave his room voluntarily so often. It was almost to a schedule.

The weather was brisk, Eran calling his inner fire to himself and warming his body more than normal as the cold breezes clung to him. They were icy, and Eran wondered if it would snow. He rubbed at his arms, rounded the corner and saw the Raven Prince tied to the cross and Mosk standing before him.

Eran walked straight up and stood next to Mosk, looking up at the Raven Prince. The Raven Prince paid him no attention at all.

‘You have a strange energy about you,’ the Raven Prince said to Mosk, as though they’d been in the middle of a conversation. ‘It’s not entirely yours, is it? What else clings to you? Who else?’

Mosk stilled, then wrapped his arms around himself. He must have already been cold, but now he smelled of fear as well. Besides, Mosk wasn’t dressed for this weather. Eran stood closer, radiated heat, hoped it wouldn’t scare him.

Mosk took a tiny sideways step towards him.

‘What is your connection to them?’ the Raven Prince said.

‘They…stole me,’ Mosk said, his voice weak and feathery. ‘No, I…owed them a debt. No, my family…owed them a debt. But I was…I was the debt.’

The Raven Prince stared down at Mosk and blinked slowly. ‘You’re a seventh son of a seventh son.’

‘You can tell?’

‘Yes,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘I can tell.’

‘Do you know about the forest?’

‘No,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘I am only a raven shifter, not omnipotent.’

‘But you seem like…’

‘I know,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘Tell me about the forest.’

Mosk edged closer to Eran until their arms bumped. This close, Eran could hear his breath shaking. The wind was too loud for him to hear it before. He looked at Mosk in concern, but the Raven Prince didn’t look as smug or self-satisfied or even as arrogant as before. He only looked curious.

‘They burned it down,’ Mosk said.

‘The Aur forest?’

‘They burned it all.’

The Raven Prince stared at Mosk for a long time, then he closed his eyes and when he opened them again, he looked up at the sky. Eran looked up too. The clouds were heavy, grey, clogging the sky with their thick clotted mass.

‘They took me,’ Mosk said. ‘I killed Davix by accident.’

‘Yes,’ the Raven Prince sighed. ‘You did it when he took your heartsong?’

‘I didn’t know that’s what I was doing. I just wanted him to stop.’

‘And it wasn’t both of them together? It was only him?’

Mosk nodded, and the Raven Prince nodded too. For someone tied up, someone famous for being fastidious about his appearance, his surroundings, where he rested and sat and walked, the Raven Prince didn’t seem to care about the ropes at all.

‘And then the ice came,’ Mosk said, pressing close to Eran constantly. ‘It’s killed a lot of people. A lot of people we care about.’

He looked at Eran then, and Eran looked back at him in confusion. Did Mosk mean Oengus? Or…Eran’s family? Or something else?

‘I recall seeing it when I was a raven,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘I stayed away.’

‘It’s hunting us,’ Mosk said. ‘Maybe it’s hunting me. It’s why we’re on the ship. It killed Oengus.’

The Raven Prince’s eyes widened just a little, and his gaze flickered briefly to Eran. Then he looked aside, and Eran thought he was seeing something real and vulnerable. Oengus and the Raven Prince had known each other, hadn’t they? Oengus had that gift from the Raven Prince up in his tower, a raven’s feather pinned to the corner. But had it been a gift between acquaintances? Or friends?

‘Perhaps,’ the Raven Prince said softly, ‘I should have stayed.’

‘Could you have?’ Mosk said.

‘No,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘I no longer wanted to live, my every thought was bent towards dying or destruction. It happens. I’d reached that age.’

‘The Winnowing,’ Eran said.

‘I thought it would be easy,’ the Raven Prince said, smirking. ‘It was not easy. But I had a bird upon my shoulder who wished me to be sad. I had a waterhorse in my Court who wished me to die. At least sometimes. Not enough, in the end.’

The Raven Prince’s gaze went out over the horizon, stretched far past the ocean the ship rested on, and after a few minutes he looked back at Eran and Mosk, all emotion erased from his face.

‘You are dismissed,’ he said.

Eran turned, pulling Mosk with him. When they were several steps away:

‘Wait. Tell me, how fares the Each Uisge?’ the Raven Prince said.

Eran paused. ‘He’s sick, his recovery has gone backwards because of what you did. He’s mostly bedridden.’

The Raven Prince said nothing, and Eran escorted Mosk away. Their steps were slow as they made their way back into the heart of the ship. They both seemed to share the same heavy heart, because that day they both went back to their separate rooms, and didn’t say another word to each other.

*

That night, when Eran was nearly asleep, he was surprised at the knock on his door. He got up, eyelids heavy, and opened it to see Mosk standing there holding a small lantern of yellow phosphorescence contained within clear, papery kelp. It glowed softly.

‘Are you mad at me?’ Mosk said.

Eran stared at him for a long moment, and then stepped back from the door. ‘Come in, first.’

‘But are you?’ Mosk said.

‘No,’ Eran said. ‘Come on.’

He took Mosk by the wrist and drew him into his dark room. The only light came from the panel of glass, because some of the creatures behind it glowed faintly.

‘You should have a fire,’ Mosk said, his voice so quiet that Eran wasn’t sure if the words were meant for him. He turned, and Mosk was looking around the room. Eran looked around too. There was nowhere to safely light a fire, and sometimes Eran called flames to his hands but it didn’t feel the same. He didn’t mind lighting the bonfire at night for the others, but it didn’t feel like home. He didn’t know if it would ever feel like home again.

‘Why do you think I’m mad at you?’

‘I keep seeing him,’ Mosk said. ‘You don’t like it.’

Was it that noticeable? ‘He uses his magic on you.’

‘I know,’ Mosk said.

‘Don’t you hate it?’

‘I don’t think he can help it,’ Mosk said. ‘He just seems like someone who wants to know things and is used to getting what he wants. But he hasn’t… Everyone acts like he’s going to do something terrible but so far he just wants to know what the world is like. He was sad about the Aur forest. And he was sad about Oengus. I think he’s even sad about Augus and stabbing him.’

‘You can’t trust his reactions,’ Eran said, taking the lantern from Mosk’s hands and setting it down, casting Mosk’s face deeper into shadow. Eran walked up to him and wanted to slide his hands gently down Mosk’s shoulders. He wanted to slant his mouth over Mosk’s and kiss him so deeply that Mosk would forget where he was. His heart pounded with it. He’d been daydreaming about Mosk as he fell asleep, and now Mosk was here, and Eran couldn’t do half the things he wanted to.

Mosk didn’t step back from him, and Eran wondered why he’d come. Just for reassurance?

‘I’m not angry with you,’ Eran said. ‘I just don’t want him to take advantage of you.’

‘He escaped them,’ Mosk said, looking down and wringing his fingers together. ‘He knows things. Maybe he knows how to kill Olphix. He’s really strong. And he came back. He’s like… What was it like when you met Kabiri?’

‘The Raven Prince isn’t a _god,’_ Eran said, scandalised. ‘And he wouldn’t be your god even if he was!’

Mosk hissed and stepped away, and then walked towards the door.

‘Wait,’ Eran said. ‘ _Wait_ , Mosk. Is it…really like that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Mosk said, pausing only several steps away from the door. ‘That’s why I asked.’

‘What’s it like for you?’ Eran said.

Mosk was quiet for a long time. ‘I was meant to have a lot of magic. You know, a seventh son of a seventh son. And I never really…felt it or got in touch with it, but I knew it was there. I used to think that if I survived, somehow, maybe I’d apprentice to a Mage. My parents hated me talking about it, so I stopped when I was very young. But I feel like…  I’ve hated every Mage I’ve met, but I don’t hate him. It’s stupid. I know he’s not trustworthy and I know he’s mean. He talks like the others. You know, the…brothers. But…’

Mosk dragged his hands through his hair and Eran wanted to do it too. How could he be jealous, when Mosk didn’t talk to anyone else like this unless he was being glamoured by the Raven Prince? How could he feel like Mosk was drifting away from him, when Mosk had come here on his own to ask if Eran was mad?

Eran walked up to him and closed his hands around Mosk’s upper arms, drawing him forwards until they were almost chest to chest. In the silence of his room, he could hear the way Mosk’s breathing stuttered.

Eran closed his eyes. He kept telling Mosk that he wasn’t ready to fuck him, but it occupied his thoughts when he wasn’t worried about the Raven Prince, or Mosk losing interest in him, or his connection to his fire.

‘I hate the School of the Staff,’ Mosk said. ‘I wish it never existed. But he feels…different.’

‘Because he glamoured you,’ Eran said patiently.

‘Because he escaped them,’ Mosk insisted. ‘I know he’s only using me for what I know, but he could use me to help him escape, or untie him. He could fly away like a bird again. I feel like he’s still a King.’

Eran sighed and drew Mosk so close that their chests were touching. He wrapped his arms around Mosk’s shoulders, making sure the pressure was firm, couldn’t be interpreted as too gentle.

‘I don’t belong here,’ Mosk said. ‘But he doesn’t care.’

‘You do belong here.’

‘I don’t. You know I don’t. You know I’m only here because I killed…because… And that’s all. They’d leave me behind otherwise. I’m useless.’

‘Hey,’ Eran said, frowning. ‘Stop it.’

‘I’m useless and the Raven Prince doesn’t seem to care as much. Or he thinks everyone is the same kind of useless. He called Gwyn a fool, and he insulted Ash, and he _stabbed_ Augus.’

‘Hey,’ Eran said again, pressing his head to the side of Mosk’s. It felt like stealing touches, getting the affection he wanted, knowing it would be uncomfortable for Mosk. He inhaled deeply, smelling green things he didn’t have the words for, smelling the salt of the sea and Mosk’s faint scent beneath that.

‘What are you doing?’ Mosk said, breathless.

‘You don’t know the things I want to do to you, sometimes,’ Eran said. ‘And you think I’m mad at you? I’m concerned, that’s all. I’m worried for you, not mad at you.’

‘What…do you want to do?’ Mosk said.

Eran smiled, wished the room was completely dark, wished it would make a secret of them both.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Eran said, finding the rope at Mosk’s wrist and squeezing it.

‘Fuck me,’ Mosk said.

‘Maybe I will,’ Eran said, and Mosk tensed, his arms shifted.

‘What? When?’

‘Soon,’ Eran said, a promise to himself as much as Mosk. It terrified him, the thought that he’d push them both further, and Mosk would turn blank and empty, and it would be like the come-covered wretch he’d found in that tavern. Eran would do whatever it took to make sure it wouldn’t be like that.

‘Really?’ Mosk whispered.

‘Yes,’ Eran said. ‘I think about it a lot.’

‘With- With me?’

‘Who else?’ Eran said, pressing his lips against Mosk’s hair, taking the delicate shell of his ear between his teeth and biting enough that Mosk’s shoulders sagged.

‘Anyone,’ Mosk said. ‘You could have anyone.’

‘I think about it with you,’ Eran said, and then not caring if Mosk would think it was too gentle, he licked down until he could press his tongue into Mosk’s ear. All he could taste was the salt of the sea, he could feel the delicate curlicues of skin and cartilage.

Mosk made a sound like he’d been struck or wounded, and then Eran laughed softly when Mosk’s knees gave way.

_Yes…it has to be soon._

He caught Mosk easily, held him up, listened to Mosk’s ragged breathing. Felt the way Mosk’s spine was pliant, resting against Eran’s arm.

But then Mosk stiffened and stepped backwards, Eran letting him go. He could see the shine of his wide eyes in the dark, the scared set to his face.

‘Oh,’ Mosk said. ‘I’m- It’s late, and- I just…I was just checking you weren’t mad so I’m going to go now.’

He turned and left the room. Eran looked at the glowing yellow lantern that Mosk had forgotten, and smiled.

*

The next day, like clockwork, Mosk was with the Raven Prince in the morning. Eran came, bringing some sap with him, handing it to Mosk without a word. Mosk accepted it easily, and started drinking it.

A few seconds later, the sound of many footsteps and Eran turned in alarm to see Gwyn and Ondine walking together, along with many of Ondine’s more respected members of the crew. Everyone except Awan, who must have taken over the piloting of the ship.

‘And lo,’ the Raven Prince said, ‘the great King of the Unseelie has decided to finally grace me with his presence.’

‘He has,’ Gwyn said, withdrawing a knife. The Raven Prince stared at it, eyes glittering. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Do you go to kill Olphix?’ the Raven Prince said, looking up at Gwyn.

‘Yes,’ Gwyn said.

‘Yes? Not… _maybe?_ Not: ‘I recognise how hard it will be, but we will try?’ Not _perhaps?’_

Gwyn made a small sound of frustration.

‘We go to kill Olphix,’ he said again.

‘I approve,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘Though, truthfully, I only came to see my advisor.’

The smile he gave was mischievous and winsome. It made him seem like he was much younger than he actually was.

‘It’s come to my attention,’ Gwyn said, ‘that you have been using your dra’ocht freely to manipulate all those around you.’

‘You owe me a story, ap Nudd,’ the Raven Prince said, ‘I am merely scraping at the edges of the debt you owe.’

Gwyn raised the knife and the Raven Prince tensed, then blinked when Gwyn cut the bindings at his wrist and fingers, bracing the Raven Prince with his own body when he began to sag. The Raven Prince’s feet weren’t touching the ground. As the ropes came away, welts appeared.

‘You are not to use your magic to harm us,’ Gwyn said roughly. ‘Or I will kill you.’

‘And Ondine agreed to that?’ the Raven Prince said mildly.

‘Times are dire,’ Ondine said. ‘And Gwyn is – among other things – our greatest hope to rid the world of Olphix.’

‘How sad for you all,’ the Raven Prince said, as Gwyn knelt down to cut the ropes at his ankles. The Raven Prince placed his fingers on Gwyn’s shoulders as though to keep his balance, but Eran could see the expression on Gwyn’s face. He was displeased. ‘But you did defeat Augus, I suppose. And the Nightingale. And a great deal of the malcontent against you for perpetuating treason and licgancy against the Seelie Court. Do they know of Crielle’s hand in this yet?’

Gwyn looked up from where he was kneeling, and the Raven Prince smiled down at him.

‘She would rather have died than admitted her nasty womb would birth a beast like you.’

Gwyn pushed back and away, standing after sheathing the knife. Eran wondered if it was the same one used to cut the Raven Prince’s finger.

The Raven Prince smoothed his shirt, then looked about the ship.

‘Are you too dumb to speak?’ the Raven Prince said, without looking at Gwyn. ‘Perhaps you’re too stupid to tell me the story you owe. What did Tigbalan ask for in exchange for the invisibility you gave Augus?’ He paused and tilted his head as he looked at some of the others, their reactions to his words. ‘Oh dear. Was that a secret? Did they not know that you gifted Augus with invisibility? But then why does the immature Aur Dryad know? Ravens are simply _terrible_ at keeping secrets.’

Gwyn looked furious, that terrifying aura he’d exuded when he’d caught the Raven Prince was flooding out everywhere. It made Eran want to hide, to get _away._ He looked at Mosk, but Mosk was – as usual – looking at the Raven Prince.

The Raven Prince stretched, then jerked the wrist of his injured hand in towards himself, cradling it against his chest. It was the first time he’d shown any sign of pain since he’d been tied up. The wound was messy, scabbed hideously, it didn’t look like it was healing well at all.

‘I’ll need to avail myself of your healers,’ the Raven Prince said to Ondine.

‘Of course,’ Ondine said.

‘I’ll not leave until you give me the story you owe me,’ the Raven Prince said to Gwyn.

‘I don’t want you to leave until I’m satisfied as to your reasons for being here in the first place. You are to assist us in our journey, and answer any questions I ask of you. That is an order from your _King,_ and I think I should like to hear you agree to it.’

The Raven Prince laughed, he looked genuinely amused, as though Gwyn was an entertaining child who had held up a charming, badly drawn illustration.

‘Of course, _Your Majesty._ I accede most humbly to your diplomatic request.’

The Raven Prince turned and walked past him, walked past Mosk and Eran, and then as they turned to watch, he seemed to fold himself into a raven as easily as another person might blink. He winged his way up to the tallest crow’s nest and there he perched, facing into the wind, the sails billowing beneath him.

‘Excellent,’ Gwyn said crisply. ‘Now he looks like the curse that he is.’

With that, Gwyn, Ondine, and the rest of them walked away. Mosk stared up and one of his hands lifted like he was reaching for him.

‘I’m going to learn to climb again,’ Mosk said, staring at the crow’s nest.

Eran looked at him, mouth dry. The Raven Prince was inspiring this. Motivating him to leave his room every day. Placing the hope and curiosity in his eyes as he looked at the crow’s nest, like he wanted to be there too. Even though Eran was having more moments of closeness with Mosk than ever before, he couldn’t help but feel like he was losing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter 'Stay Right Here:'
> 
> ‘Do you like me?’ Eran said, and Mosk looked up at him. Eran looked at him so intently it scattered his thoughts. 
> 
> ‘What…kind of question is that?’ Mosk said. _‘No._ No I don’t.’
> 
> ‘No?’ Eran said, and Mosk found it harder to breathe. Eran’s hand was curling around his ribs. His hands were broad and so hot after Mosk had spent his time scaling the shroud. ‘Not even a little bit? I’ll only fuck you if you like me.’
> 
> ‘Ah,’ Mosk managed, an exhale more than any meaningful syllable. Eran smiled at him. ‘Stop…stop looking at me like that.’
> 
> ‘Like what?’ 
> 
> Mosk had spent so much time saying ‘fuck me’ to Eran, because Eran was supposed to play by the same rules as everyone else. 
> 
> ‘You have to tell me the truth, Mosk,’ Eran said.
> 
> Mosk looked down the corridor, both ways, and couldn’t see anyone. Then he stumbled as Eran pushed him backwards. His back thumped up against one of the tapestries made of fish scales.


	8. Stay Right Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHHHH dfskljfsda you know I know they've had sex in previous chapters but this chapter is pretty special for the both of them. As for new tags, I think we can pretty safely say there's mild edging and temperature play (heat). We're getting towards the middle / second arc now which so far has been my flat out favourite to write for all of _The Ice Plague._ Hope you like the chapter! Thanks for reading :D

_Mosk_

*

Mosk’s arms were chilled as he grasped the ropes with hands that used to be stronger, fingers that used to have better grip. Over time, callouses that had come from constant tree climbing had faded to softness. Even so, his hands were those of an Aur dryad, his palm muscles folding and clamping automatically, his fingers splayed as he sensed what he climbed.

He’d decided to tackle one of the rope shrouds first, instead of the mast. That way, if he got too dizzy, if the vertigo struck, he wouldn’t fall straight down and the sloping net of rope would catch him. The rope shrouds were giant net triangles stretching upwards from the deck, where they were attached three quarters high to the mast.

His muscles burned, his breath was heavy and scoured his lungs. The day was frigid and he wanted to be warm. He wanted to be near Eran.

But he wanted this more.

He looked up to where he could barely glimpse the crow’s nest, saw the Raven Prince at the top, facing the wind. That was where the Raven Prince stayed now, unless he came down to see the healers or find something to eat. He sometimes flew in great circles around the Mantissa, but mostly he was a regular fixture in true form, gazing out into the world from the highest crow’s nest.

Mosk took several quick, deep breaths and pushed up further with his legs. He was already much higher than he’d been when he climbed the shelves to get the blankets for Eran.

His heart pounded with what he dared. He’d given up on climbing trees over a year ago, but he watched the other fae climbing all over the Mantissa as they worked and it made him hunger for something he thought he’d never truly want again. The ship didn’t speak to him like trees once did, but trees would never speak to him again either. The instinct to climb and get up high had woken in his body. He wanted to be higher.

He wanted to reach the crow’s nest with the Raven Prince perched upon it and he wanted to stare at the whole wide ocean, feel the wind on his face and know himself for whatever creature he was becoming. Not quite an Aur dryad, not really, but not nothing. Even when he wished to be.  

The rope was rough and wet with salt spray. Even up here, the wind would dry it, but then spray and mist would float up again and soak it once more. The salt crusted in deeply, the rope creaked beneath him. It was far thicker than it looked.

Mosk pulled himself up and felt the way the winds moved the rope shrouds and him by default. Sometimes he looked down, and once he saw Awan watching him. Awan had only waved and Mosk had hesitantly lifted his own hand.

Awan hadn’t asked him to work on the ship though, like Mosk had first feared. He just seemed to always…want to know what was going on aboard the Mantissa. Mosk supposed he couldn’t blame him. It seemed like a ship this size, that wasn’t meant to float, would need constant maintenance.

He was ten metres above the ground when his muscles burned too much and he had to stop, gasping for breath and staring up. He had so much further to go. He didn’t remember being this weak even as a child. It seemed like he’d always been born to climb trees to the very top. He wasn’t used to having to try so hard only to gain so little.

As he stared, the Raven Prince – at least three times larger than a normal raven – hopped over and peered at Mosk.

After a moment, he cawed once, and Mosk had no idea what it meant. The sound was loud, robust, and Mosk felt it like some acknowledgement of his efforts. Maybe he was just making it up, maybe the Raven Prince was laughing at him.

The Raven Prince watched as Mosk climbed down, but when Mosk looked back, legs trembling beneath him as he stood weakly, the Raven Prince was back to facing the winds.

Soon after that, Mosk collapsed and was too tired to protest when Uhina came and found him, picking him up carefully and taking him to a deck chair where he could get his strength back. It was humiliating.

‘It’s good,’ she said, petting his shoulder so hard that it stung. ‘It’s good to push yourself. But it’s good to rest too. They say you have no heartsong, which must be impossible, because you climb like you have something in there.’

She walked off and Mosk’s eyes fluttered shut. He wondered what they’d been told about him, who had done the telling. In the end, it didn’t matter. It felt strangely good to feel the pain of rope burn on his palms, to feel the strain of what he’d done through his body.

*

A week later, his palms had new callouses, his fingers too, but he could only make it about halfway up the rope shroud before dizziness or fatigue claimed him. He’d slid down the rope twice, catching himself at the last moment, shoulders jerking painfully, fingers bleeding and blistered. How had there ever been a time when he could sprint and swing and catch himself in the trees? Had he ever truly been that person?

He didn’t know what Eran thought of it. Sometimes he’d see Eran watching him, but Mosk was usually too exhausted afterwards to say much. Eran would help him sit somewhere, or take him back down to his room, and Mosk would stumble into his bedroom and fall on his bed, wheezing for every breath, muscles trembling.

Even then, when he checked the spiral shell that the verkhwin had given him, it grew moss. He removed it and it always returned. It grew moss constantly now, there was never a time when he didn’t open the drawer and see the green of a species he didn’t recognise. He ate it sometimes to hide it, and he had no idea what the sea trows thought when they cleaned his room, because he hid all the excess moss under his bed, hoping Eran never saw it. He was terrified people would find out, that it would mean something had gone wrong, or worse, that someone like Gwyn would want to use it somehow.

*

Eran watched him often, and Mosk worried that he would try to make him stop, but instead he waited below. Mosk couldn’t tell if that was worse. It made him nervous, made his hands sweaty, made him look down and wonder what Eran was thinking.

‘Are you enjoying it?’ Eran said, helping him back to his room when Mosk couldn’t even get as far as he’d gotten the previous day.

‘I used to climb so much,’ Mosk said. ‘I don’t know why I’m so bad at it now.’

Eran said nothing, like he knew exactly why Mosk was so bad at it. But he _didn’t_ know, and venom rose in Mosk’s chest. Eran didn’t know about _any_ of it. If he knew, he would know that Mosk had gone through almost nothing that warranted these pathetic daily attempts at climbing. He’d know that there was no reason for Mosk to be this bad at anything.

‘All dryads must climb a lot,’ Eran said.

‘They don’t,’ Mosk said waspishly. ‘I just liked doing it.’

‘The others didn’t?’ Eran said, surprised.

‘Not as much as me,’ Mosk said hesitantly. ‘I was like…a squirrel, or a pine marten. Mamatree would say that if you wanted to find me, you only had to look up to the canopy.’

It was a nice saying, but it wasn’t true. The older Mosk grew, the more he came to feel uncomfortable around his family; Mallem’s angry stares and even Chaley’s warm sympathy that felt like pity at times. As he became more skilled with the bow and arrow after his Mamatree had told him to stop, he felt like a gall in their house, growing something poisonous inside of him that would ruin the rest of them.

Eventually, that’s what happened.

‘You have the body for it,’ Eran said.

Mosk blinked. ‘What?’

Sometimes Eran looked at him and Mosk didn’t know what to do with himself. Eran was looking at him like that now. Mosk realised they were deep in the corridor of the ship leading to their rooms. Eran had his hands on Mosk’s shoulders and there was a light in his eyes that looked like it wanted to burn straight through him. Once, it was terrifying.

Now, alongside the terror, there was something else that Mosk only just recognised. A stirring, a tendril that came into hazy focus.

Eran was looking down at his body. His legs, across his arms, even his torso. Then, like it was easy, Eran reached out and palmed Mosk’s side firmly from his chest down to his hip, and then back up until his warm hand was under Mosk’s armpit.

Mosk couldn’t move. It used to be easy to goad Eran into fucking him, but now that Eran was far more likely to follow through, to do things that left Mosk shattered physically and surprised at the feelings his body could contain, it was harder to throw down the challenge. Once, he was asking for oblivion, but Eran gave him something different and Mosk didn’t know if he had a place for it.

‘Do you like me?’ Eran said, and Mosk looked up at him. Eran looked at him so intently it scattered his thoughts.

‘What…kind of question is that?’ Mosk said. ‘ _No._ No I don’t.’

‘No?’ Eran said, and Mosk found it harder to breathe. Eran’s hand was curling around his ribs. His hands were broad and so hot after Mosk had spent his time scaling the shroud. ‘Not even a little bit? I’ll only fuck you if you like me.’

‘Ah,’ Mosk managed, an exhale more than any meaningful syllable. Eran smiled at him. ‘Stop…stop looking at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

Mosk had spent so much time saying ‘fuck me’ to Eran, because Eran was supposed to play by the same rules as everyone else.

‘You have to tell me the truth, Mosk,’ Eran said.

Mosk looked down the corridor, both ways, and couldn’t see anyone. Then he stumbled as Eran pushed him backwards. His back thumped up against one of the tapestries made of fish scales.

‘Do you like me?’ Eran said. ‘Maybe you don’t like me all the time, but sometimes, don’t you?’

‘I…’

Eran’s other hand came up and stroked over the rope around Mosk’s wrist. Mosk could barely feel it. Eran was so close to him, so warm, and he felt a distant rumble, a memory of a fire he couldn’t bear, but it was far away when Eran stood so near. Mosk didn’t understand it. He’d _seen_ Eran’s true form.

Maybe that was the problem. Eran had never hurt him in his true form.

‘You’re really cute when you get like this,’ Eran said conversationally. ‘Did you used to get flustered a lot? They told me you used to be shy and I see that now.’

‘Who told you?’ Mosk said without thinking. ‘I’m not flustered!’

He winced at the idea of anyone calling him cute. Like…a toy, or…

He froze when Eran leaned so heavily into him that he could feel Eran’s hardness against his hip. He stared across to the opposite wall as Eran pressed close, and Mosk’s hands opened and closed, opened and closed.

‘Did any of them ever bother to seduce you?’ Eran said, his voice deeper than before, more threatening. Mosk couldn’t tell if he even liked it. It was fear and heat and a paralysis he didn’t want to fight. A heavy sensation, like he’d struck his tap root down right here, even if it was a foolish place to do it.

‘You’re wasting your time,’ Mosk said.

‘Doesn’t seem like it.’

‘You’re not even _doing_ anything.’

‘You know,’ Eran said, ‘I’m definitely not doing much, but your heart is racing.’

Mosk looked sharply down at the hand right up at his armpit, palm facing inwards, and realised that Eran could _tell._ He slid sideways and Eran let him escape. Mosk turned, pointing at Eran in accusation, but couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Eran stared at him, his eyes burning steadily.

Clients had looked at him like that. Clients had looked at him like there was a fire inside of them that was going to destroy him.

‘You…’ he said.

‘You don’t need to be so scared,’ Eran said, expression clearing, and Mosk wanted to know where he’d tucked that hungry part of him. His eyes dropped to see the outline of Eran’s cock through his pants. Mosk’s heart _was_ beating hard. ‘But I suppose you would be.’

‘I’m not,’ Mosk said, his mouth dry. ‘Don’t tell me I’m scared.’

‘You already know I won’t let you hide in it, when we have sex,’ Eran said. ‘And you don’t know what it is without that, do you?’

‘You don’t know anything about this!’ Mosk said, quailing to hear how petulant his words were.

‘If it helps, Augus has been helping me understand better,’ Eran said.

_‘Augus?’_ Mosk said, thinking that the last time he’d seen Augus, the waterhorse had been stabbed, but _before_ that Augus had been the one to play at tormenting Mosk in order to make Eran jealous. But Augus had been mean, too, and Mosk dreaded to think what Eran and Augus talked about. What they said about how awful and cruel and pathetic he was. Augus had called Mosk a bully once, and it wasn’t _wrong,_ but did that mean Augus was teaching Eran how to punish him?

‘It’s nothing bad,’ Eran said quickly. ‘I can see why you would think that, but it’s really not.’

‘But I don’t want…’

Even as he started to say the words, he didn’t know if he was allowed to say them. He raised his fingertips to his mouth as Eran pushed away from the wall, looking concerned.

‘What don’t you want? Tell me.’

He’d been mostly cajoling until now, then he switched easily to that voice that made commands of Mosk and turned his mind inside out. He was going to have to answer. He didn’t know what to say.

‘I don’t want…you to be like him,’ Mosk said.

It wasn’t exactly what he’d been about to say, but it was close enough. Eran’s face was doing something, folding into sympathy and horror and he was stepping forwards and Mosk stood there, heart rabbiting away in his chest. Maybe Eran could feel it from there.

‘Have you hated anything else we’ve done so far?’ Eran said.

Mosk shook his head automatically. So tempting to say that he hated all of it, but then Eran would tell him he was lying and he would walk away. Mosk didn’t mind lying, but he didn’t like when Eran walked away from him.

‘Because some of that I’ve done with his advice in mind,’ Eran said. ‘It’s little things. How about we talk about it? And then you can know and it won’t be a secret. But if I talk to you about this, I want you to talk to me too.’

‘About what?’ Mosk said, his voice dry.

‘About you,’ Eran said. ‘About the things you don’t like, the things you do. About what you might like to do with me.’

Eran was close again, Mosk wanted to lean into him but he stood straight and he wondered what the moss on the shell in his room was doing. He had visions of it shoving his bedroom door open, creeping beneath the gap between door and floor. But when he looked, no moss could be seen.

‘That scares you,’ Eran said.

‘You won’t like it.’

‘Maybe I won’t like all of it,’ Eran said. ‘But Mosk, I like _you,_ okay?’

That twisted at him, left him pooling with shame. Had he said or done something to trap him? Had he made this happen? Eran had his choice of lovely people on the ship, Mosk had seen them himself, he’d even seen Eran look at them sometimes. So it wasn’t like…Mosk was the only option now. He still felt like he’d played a terrible trick.

‘You want to do this now?’ Eran said. ‘Or do you want a break?’

‘To talk about things?’

‘I think I want to tie you up when I’m talking to you,’ Eran said, reaching for Mosk’s wrist, smiling when Mosk offered it to him automatically. ‘I think it helps you feel safer. But that means we might do other stuff. And it might be a lot. Maybe it will tire you out too much for climbing tomorrow.’

‘You care about that?’

Eran exhaled hard enough that Mosk felt it brush hot against his face. ‘It’s important to you.’

‘You don’t like that I’m doing it.’

‘For someone who doesn’t want to notice things, you notice a lot of things,’ Eran said grudgingly. ‘But you can’t magically read my mind. I’m worried about you. I want you to be safe. And after a really long time of you not wanting to do anything at all, it’s…okay this is embarrassing, and I want to say ‘don’t hold it against me’ but I’m sure you will…but Mosk, it’s scary watching you try new things. Maybe you’ll realise you don’t like me at all. You know, I can’t imagine why, I’m just the person who caught you and tortured you for a while, who reminds you of everything you lost.’

‘That’s stupid,’ Mosk said, voice thin. It wasn’t though. He could see why Eran felt that way and Mosk hated it. ‘It’s not like you stopped torturing me, I have to see your face every day.’

Eran’s eyes snapped to his, and Mosk waited those few seconds to see if Eran would take him seriously, or if Eran would _understand…_

Eran burst into soft laughter, and the relief that Mosk felt was so large in his chest that it threatened to swallow him whole.

‘It’s stupid?’ Eran said, smiling.

‘I mean it’s…it’s not stupid, but it’s- You thinking that I won’t like you at all. I don’t- You’re pretty and um, nice to me, and you have a really good voice, for ah, singing…’

Mosk listened to himself with a kind of despair.

‘I used to be able to talk, once,’ he said, and covered his face with his other hand.

‘It’s not bad to be flustered around me,’ Eran said, his voice possessive and rumbling and shot through with heat.

Mosk shook his head.

‘I do,’ he said. ‘I do need a break. Until I climb to the top of the crow’s nest. Okay? Until then. I just want so badly… How come he gets to do it? I used to do it all the time. I just want to be able to-’

He squeaked when Eran pulled him into a huge, overwarm embrace that was so firm it crushed him.

‘It’s so good,’ Eran said. ‘It’s so good to hear you want something. We’ll wait until you’ve reached the top of the crow’s nest. I know it won’t take you long, Mosk. Sometimes I think you’re more determined than me, and I never had my heartsong taken from me.’

Mosk didn’t know what to do with Eran’s faith in him. It had been so long since anyone had believed in him, it had mostly only been Chaley, and she believed he would beat Olphix, and she’d been burned to death in front of him for it.

Eran’s embrace burned the memory until it didn’t hurt him as much, until Mosk sagged into him. The Mages hadn’t ever done this. They’d placed gentle, tender arms around his shoulders and touched him, but they’d never been able to embrace him like this because he’d been tied in the chair. Mosk tried to remember a time when Eran had done this before, but maybe he’d been too out of it, maybe he’d not noticed, but how could he not _notice…_

After a few seconds where he wanted to push away from the intensity of it, he let himself give in. A sapling bending into a new shape, instead of resisting and splitting. Eran didn’t rush to push him away, and enough time went by that Mosk knew they were both just there because they wanted to be.

Mosk placed a hand carefully against Eran’s back and his fingers moved around absently, looking for the place where those fire wings sprouted free. He wasn’t sure. Eran squirmed beneath him.

‘That’s ticklish,’ he said.

‘You have wings,’ Mosk said. ‘Do they come out of your shoulders?’

Eran tensed, and just as Mosk knew he’d done the wrong thing, Eran relaxed again. ‘I don’t…actually know. I don’t really remember. Are you looking?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘You never touch me.’

‘It doesn’t count if I’m looking for wings,’ Mosk said.

‘Maybe I grow tiny wings all over and you’ll have to look everywhere.’

Mosk shoved him away as Eran burst out laughing, the sound loud and broad, his eyes dancing with amber. Mosk smiled in spite of himself.

‘You’re disgusting,’ Mosk said.

‘And you should get some rest! You’ll need to be strong to climb to the crow’s nest, won’t you?’

Eran looked at him expectantly until Mosk nodded. Mosk’s body still echoed with the warmth Eran had wrapped around him.

Mosk waved goodbye, knowing it looked stupid, cheered when Eran did it back. As Mosk walked into his room, he wondered if Eran knew that he was Mosk’s first friend.

*

It took another three days to reach the crow’s nest. Mosk pushed himself until his limbs burned, until they trembled and he waited it out and he kept climbing, finally reaching the top of the shroud where he had no choice but to duck sideways and go the rest of the way by the spokes pinned into the huge wooden mast. He pressed his hand to the wood and wondered what kind of tree it used to be, but it couldn’t tell him.

Briefly, while gasping for air, he thought about forcing it to grow to see what it was, but he was still too scared to show anyone his abilities.

On the third day, he climbed the rest of the way up and ignored the small crowd that had gathered beneath. Ash and Julvia were there too. Eran was leaning back against the guard rail, staring up like he knew Mosk could do it. Mosk didn’t know a lot of the others. He hoped they weren’t waiting for him to fail.

He poked his head through the hole leading onto the wooden platform. It was larger than it seemed from the ground. He heaved himself up and lay face down on the damp wood, every breath shredding his dry throat. His lungs were on fire. His whole body hurt. But it shocked Mosk to realise that none of it hurt the way Olphix and Davix had hurt him. Maybe nothing would hurt like that again.

Above him, the Raven Prince looked down in bird form, then made a small crooning sound.

Mosk flipped sideways as the Raven Prince shifted into human form, sitting on the raised wooden cup of the crow’s nest, fingers braced – one bandaged – and legs swinging a little.

‘Well done,’ he said.

Mosk made a noise of acknowledgement that probably sounded like a dying animal. He lay there and panted and expected the Raven Prince to leave, but he stayed, looking down with open curiosity.

‘You…’ Mosk said, his voice hoarse. ‘I never told you that they took my heartsong.’

The detail had been niggling at him, over and over. The Raven Prince saying that he wasn’t omnipotent, and yet knowing that Mosk’s heartsong had been taken.

‘I can tell,’ the Raven Prince said.

‘Fenwrel had to touch me to know.’

‘Well. But I am _very_ good at magic,’ the Raven Prince said.

Mosk rolled his eyes. He didn’t even have the energy to push himself up into a sitting position. He daydreamed about just letting himself drop through the hole in the crow’s nest and falling to the floor. As a Court fae, he’d survive it, even if it would take weeks to heal from shattering his bones like that. But even that seemed more appealing than climbing down.

After a moment, he pushed himself up until he could lean against the wood, still gasping for breath. He looked around properly. There was a small cabinet up here, and a little shelf with two apples and some shells on it. Magic probably held it in place, because the mast swayed with the winds.

Amazingly, his vertigo wasn’t so bad, as though being on the moving mast tricked his brain into thinking everything was fine. It was like how the Mantissa’s rocking made him feel steadier.

‘You’re really that good?’ Mosk said. ‘But you don’t have your staff.’

‘Even so,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘You’ll find almost none better.’

‘Except Olphix and Davix?’

The Raven Prince stared at him, unblinking, for a long time. Then his face smoothed as he smiled. ‘Except them.’

‘Because if you were stronger than them, you would have killed them by now.’

‘And so,’ the Raven Prince said, lifting a hand in agreement. ‘How did it feel to kill Davix?’

‘Bad,’ Mosk whispered, wondering why he wanted to come up here in the first place. Why had he been curious about being around the Raven Prince again? ‘I just wanted it to stop. But Olphix was…angry.’

‘He didn’t kill you,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘But he would be mad with grief. He’ll never be what he was. So he left you alive and cursed you, and now their magic clings to you. What else is it, though? There’s something else… What do you dream of?’

‘I’m going,’ Mosk said, crawling towards the hole in the crow’s nest. ‘Don’t use your glamour on me.’

‘I might consider it if you’re politer about it. I used to be a King.’

‘Please,’ Mosk said, his arms shaking. He looked up at the Raven Prince and begged with his eyes in the same way he begged Olphix and Davix to stop torturing him. The Raven Prince’s expression, previously playful, shifted to something solemn. ‘Please don’t use your glamour on me. If you want to talk to me about it, we can, I promise. But not now. I don’t even know if it’s real.’

‘The dreams?’ the Raven Prince said. ‘I could help you, but I suspect you want nothing much to do with our magic. I’ll wait. But you made a promise, small tree, and I will hold you to it.’

‘Okay,’ Mosk said.

‘If you climb down now, you’ll fall,’ the Raven Prince added. ‘I’ll not save you. So you’d best just lie there like a dead fish for a little while. You reek like one too.’

‘It’s the boat.’

‘Everything reeks of salt,’ the Raven Prince said, then laughed, leaning back precariously on the rim of the crow’s nest as though he didn’t care that he might fall. Mosk supposed if he dropped, he could shift and fly away. He envied that, a golden hard gleam in his chest.

Mosk lay on his back and stared up at the sky. It was blue above them. Blue and bright and vast, even now that he was closer to it. The feeling was so like being in a tree. He welcomed the wave of green warmth that moved through him, pressing his fingers down to the wooden planks and pretending they were tree limbs.

He’d done it, he’d climbed to the top of the crow’s nest, and it _did_ feel like being at the top of a tree again. Even if he was deaf to the words of trees now, he’d still done it. A part of himself he’d lost, he’d clawed it back.

‘Does it feel good now?’ Mosk said. ‘To be back? The Winnowing kills a lot of fae, you must have wanted to die a lot.’

His Mamatree explained it was a natural way to control the fae population, though no one knew why it happened, only when. A fae had to be tens of thousands of years old, but not yet a hundred thousand. They would be overcome with depression and a yearning to die, and they would be old enough to will it with a simple thought, closing their eyes and asking for death the way some fae could close their eyes and will sleep. Some were hit by it when they were ten thousand, others when they were older.

Any fae that survived it, were treated with a reverence and respect that came from looking at nature’s wish for one to die, and deciding it wasn’t yet time.

‘Endlessly,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘And yes, it feels wonderful. It has been _so_ long since I’ve felt this way about being alive. Even as I find myself returning to what we’d call _dire circumstances_ , I find I now have enough care in me to fear for my life, which I had lost, before. It’s incredible that one can spend their lives as one of the most powerful people in the world, but I still couldn’t sail through the Winnowing without paying the proverbial ferryman. In the end, I could only trick it with a parody of my death. I craved it all the time.’

‘But you’re back. Will you be King again?’

‘I hope not,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘The one without his light doesn’t seem like the worst King we’ve had. But it’s fun to watch him twist, isn’t it? Let him think I want the throne. It will make him work harder to keep it.’

‘I don’t know,’ Mosk said. ‘He might just give it back to you.’

‘Not that one,’ the Raven Prince said soberly. ‘He reminds me of me. Goodness! I must not be myself to say something like _that._ It’s like comparing myself to a _cow._ Dumb from grass and shitting all the time. He is yoked to the throne, yes, but determined to perform well. He will never give it up because he wants to. His wants matter less than executing the role admirably. After all, he goes to kill Olphix.’

Mosk shuddered and the Raven Prince laughed raucously. When Mosk next looked at him, the Raven Prince was a raven once more, facing the winds and looking like he’d never deigned to speak to Mosk a day in his life.

Another two hours, and Mosk felt ready to tackle the mast once more, climbing down to a crowd. Ash pulled him off the mast and congratulated him, Julvia beamed, but it was Eran that drew his attention. Eran, leaning against guard rail and nodding at him, like he knew all along it would happen.

His eyes were a promise, and Mosk almost forgot about his tired body in the face of Eran’s hunger for him.

*

Mosk woke to Eran in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed and passing a canister of sap to him even as Mosk pushed himself upright. He didn’t feel as bad as before and he thought his body might be healing faster now that he was pushing it. He took the sap with a hand that barely shook, even though his breathing was shaky to have Eran so close to him.

‘You slept a long time,’ Eran said. ‘You must have needed it.’

‘Yeah,’ Mosk said, taking the sap. He tasted the bitterness of yew, poison to so many others, but deeply refreshing. He drank deeply, only able to watch Eran for a few minutes before he looked away. ‘Are you tying me up today?’

‘Do you want that?’

‘Just make me,’ Mosk said, his voice low. ‘Stop asking me.’

‘I’m going to ask you a lot of questions today,’ Eran said, taking Mosk and drawing him off the bed. When it was clear that Mosk could stand, he drew him out of Mosk’s room, closing the door behind him with a click, crossing the corridor to Eran’s room.

‘What…time is it?’ Mosk said.

‘Late morning,’ Eran said. ‘You didn’t have any nightmares that I could tell. Maybe you were too tired for them?’

Mosk was beginning to think his dreams with Davix had been just that, dreams.

‘Maybe.’

Eran drew Mosk over to the bed, then pushed him down by his shoulders until he sat. Mosk watched him go to his bedroom door and close it, then lock it. The bedspread he sat on today was patterned in flames of gold and yellow and white. He remembered it briefly when he found blankets for Eran and he touched his hand to it. Anything to distract himself from the rising nervousness.

When the closet opened, Mosk looked up as Eran drew out lengths of rope, one after the other.

‘What kind of things do you think Augus and I talk about, when it comes to you?’ Eran said, as he walked over with loops of shining, pale rope.

‘How to hurt me,’ Mosk said, looking at them.

‘No,’ Eran said, placing the rope down on the bed. ‘Here, hold still.’

Fingers came and started undoing the buttons at the top of Mosk’s shirt. Mosk looked down and watched the brown fingers work, the nails clever and buffed to shining. He wondered if Eran could feel Mosk’s nervous breaths, his chest hardly working.

‘We don’t talk about how to hurt you,’ Eran continued, knuckles brushing against Mosk’s belly. ‘I wouldn’t talk to him, if that’s what he wanted to talk about. So what else do you think we talk about?’

‘How you could do better than me,’ Mosk said.

Eran paused, Mosk looked away so that he wouldn’t have to meet Eran’s eyes.

‘I don’t think I can punish you,’ Eran said soberly, ‘because I know you can’t help it. But every time you say something like that about yourself, I’m going to tell you something I like about you, and you’re not going to be able to escape it.’

‘So?’

Eran undid the last button and pulled Mosk’s shirt back and over his shoulders. Mosk moved his arms cooperatively, even as he felt sullen.

‘I think that you’re very brave,’ Eran said. ‘When we were out in that battle, I saw the way you looked at the bow and arrows. I hardly remember everything that happened after I shifted. But I remember the look on your face, and I remember how you refused to leave me behind when I didn’t want to come to the ship. I don’t know what I would have done without you.’

‘You had Ash’s glamour.’

‘Oh no,’ Eran said, smiling. ‘Now I have to say another nice thing about you. But let’s finish the first. Repeat after me, Mosk, ‘you think I’m brave.’’

‘What?’ Mosk said, staring at him.

‘Go on,’ Eran said, eyebrows lifting. ‘I’m not asking.’

Mosk watched as Eran reached for one of the loops of rope and drew Mosk’s arms to the front of his body. He crossed them at the wrists, over his chest, and then once he was satisfied with the position, he started looping the rope around his skin.

_‘Mosk,’_ Eran said, his voice hard.

‘You…ah, you…’

‘You can do it,’ Eran said. ‘You have to.’

Mosk stared down at the rope and thought he could probably just leave. He could say he didn’t like it, then get up and walk away. But it was heady, having Eran giving him his undivided attention like this. It felt like something precious and it was hard to walk away from something he’d never had before.

‘You…think I’m brave?’ Mosk said, his voice feathery.

‘I don’t like that you made it a question,’ Eran said, disapproving. ‘But that was good, Mosk. Now be quiet while I get you exactly how I want you, okay?’

Mosk nodded, hating that Eran was disappointed, wanting Eran’s approval, not knowing why it mattered so much after so long hating him.

As the rope fixed his arms into shape, Mosk realised his hands were positioned so that he could touch his own shoulders, palms facing inwards. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, curling his fingers into fists. He didn’t like to be aware of touching his own skin. Most of the time, he didn’t like to be aware of anyone touching his skin. Except Eran.

‘Stand,’ Eran said, pulling him upwards by the forearms without waiting for Mosk to stand on his own.

Mosk’s breathing came faster, and he stared as Eran knelt to undo the fastening at his pants. Eran looked up at him, offered a small, reassuring smile. Mosk felt the instinct to spit out some insult, to say he didn’t need it, but he did nothing. He only watched as Eran lowered his pants, helping Mosk get his legs out one at a time without his arms to balance himself.

‘Okay, you’re allowed to talk again. What do you think Augus and I talk about, when we talk about you?’ Eran said.

‘Ropes,’ Mosk said.

‘That’s very good,’ Eran said, standing. ‘We do sometimes. He showed me a few ties I can use. He’s someone who likes ‘learning by doing’ so I got tied up a couple of times.’

‘What?’ Mosk said, staring at him.

‘I don’t like it very much,’ Eran said, laughing. ‘And he didn’t do anything he shouldn’t have, but he said it helps to know what the ties are supposed to feel like. He said it happened to him too, in the beginning.’

‘Has he done other things to you?’

‘Not really,’ Eran said. ‘He’s shown me a few ways to move someone, and a few pressure points, but I don’t know if I’ll use those. They hurt a lot.’

Mosk didn’t like the idea of Eran being hurt and he frowned. Eran seemed fine about it.

‘Okay,’ Eran said. ‘You’re going to scoot back on the bed until your back hits the pillows, I’ll help you.’

Eran gripped his wrists and helped Mosk get his legs onto the bed. From there, it was awkward, and Mosk felt stupid and ridiculous not being able to use his arms, having to push back with his feet, then move his ass, then push back with his feet again. When he hit the pillows he felt a moment of relief, then gulped when Eran pulled his legs apart so he could kneel between them.

Another loop of rope, this one around his ankle until Eran could pull the leading end to the bottom corner of the bed. He lay face down as he fixed it to the corner, Mosk’s leg stretched out, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. He only tied one ankle, he left the other free, and Mosk closed his eyes because he didn’t want to feel grateful for that, didn’t like knowing that Eran was doing it because he remembered Mosk’s difficulties with having both of his ankles tied.

‘What else do you think we talk about?’ Eran said, moving so he could drape himself across Mosk’s torso to reach the top drawer of the small bedside cabinet next to the bed.

‘I don’t know,’ Mosk said, shifting his arms, feeling his wrists rubbing against his chest.

‘We tried talking about the things you liked, but then I realised I didn’t know much about what you liked, aside from stuff that seems obvious. So we’re going to talk about that today.’

A vial of lubricant fell next to Mosk and he stared at it, bending his free leg up towards himself.

How could he be scared? He’d been fucked countless times.

Eran placed both of his hands flat on Mosk’s belly. Mosk felt the muscles twitch and flutter, embarrassed. He gasped when he felt heat drizzling into him, Eran’s hands warming. It wasn’t a normal amount of warmth. Mosk could feel it entering him, his mouth opening. Eran watched him closely.

‘Do you like this?’ Eran said.

‘Are you burning me?’ Mosk said.

‘Does it hurt?’

Mosk shook his head, and the heat kept moving into him, like wax or oil oozing through his muscles and into his organs. The muscles that twitched went still, Mosk’s breathing came easier.

‘Do you like this?’ Eran said again.

‘What if…?’

‘Tell me,’ Eran said, still doing it. Mosk’s toes curled.

‘What if I like it now, but…I don’t like it later?’

Eran nodded like he expected it, but he still didn’t stop letting heat flood into Mosk’s body. After a few seconds, Mosk’s shoulders slumped back into the bed as he felt his lungs and chest warming. It was alarming. But his muscles couldn’t hold up the same tension with that heat forced through them.

‘That’s fine,’ Eran said. ‘It’s normal to not like everything, all the time. You’re allowed to change your mind. You like to be warm, I’ve noticed. It must be awful when it reminds you of what happened. Of course you’re not like going to like this all the time.’

Mosk wanted to cover his face with his hands, his fingers spread and he only succeeded in brushing his own shoulders with them.

Eran splayed his hands until his thumbs were stretched to Mosk’s sides, his fingers no longer touching one another. He looked down, and Mosk hiccupped when the heat increased. It was on the edge of painful, but it didn’t feel like it was damaging his skin.

‘Are you burning me?’ he said tremulously.

‘No,’ Eran said. ‘Not everything I do is about fire, some of it is about distributing heat. This goes some way past your normal body temperature. It’s meant to be intense.’

Mosk nodded, eyes wide.

‘Good,’ Eran said, reaching for the lubricant, leaving his other hand on Mosk’s belly. ‘So, one more thing I like about you! I didn’t forget.’ He lifted his other hand to uncork the vial, and drizzled the clear substance onto his fingers, before corking it and dropping his hot hand to Mosk’s belly once more.

The lubricant was already warm when Eran drew a line of it down Mosk’s cock with two fingers, over his balls, before pausing at his perineum and letting the slickness drip down. Mosk tried to remember how to breathe like a normal person.

‘I like how witty you can be,’ Eran said, moving the hand that had been at Mosk’s belly to his knee, to push it further outwards until there was a burn in Mosk’s groin. Mosk stared up at the ceiling when he felt lubricant dripping directly over his entrance. The last time Eran had pushed his fingers inside of him, Mosk had come twice. Mosk shivered to remember it.

‘Honestly, sometimes you’re rude or mischievous, and sometimes you have a really bad attitude, but I think your ability to talk back means you have some real wit hiding away there even if you don’t speak your mind a lot of the time. I know you fall back on just…insulting me, and I’ve realised that usually means you’ve been pushed too far, or you’re scared, but-’

‘That’s not what it means,’ Mosk hissed, ‘you don’t know.’

‘Now I’m going to have to say another nice thing about you.’

‘Good luck,’ Mosk spat. ‘You’ll run out fast.’

‘And another one,’ Eran said, grinning at him, teeth flashing.

‘Stop it,’ Mosk said weakly. ‘I’m not witty.’

‘Three more things I like about you,’ Eran said. ‘You want me to keep looking? It’s the easiest thing in the world for me to do.’

Two fingers prodded together at Mosk’s entrance, and Mosk frowned at Eran, not liking the fact that his cock was getting hard or the way the residual heat made him feel lax or the way Eran was so cheerful about saying _nice things._

‘But I’m so mean to you,’ Mosk said. ‘Please don’t add another thing. You know it’s true. I’m so mean to you.’

‘Sometimes you are,’ Eran said matter-of-factly. ‘But it doesn’t cancel out the things I like about you, or I wouldn’t be here with you. You have reasons to be the way that you are, and if you think I don’t notice the times when you try and be so good to me… I notice. You’re going to be good for me today, aren’t you? You’re going to let me finish saying what I like about you without interrupting me all the time.’

Mosk closed his eyes when those two fingertips started moving backwards and forwards over his entrance, until everything was wet and slippery and so warm. Eran’s fingers were hotter than Mosk’s body heat.

‘I think you’re very witty,’ Eran said, pushing one of his fingertips forward. ‘Say it back to me, Mosk. ‘You think I’m witty.’’

Mosk’s mouth opened because he’d been given an order, but he couldn’t think about anything for a moment. Eran withdrew his finger a little, and Mosk fumbled for the words Eran wanted.

‘You think I’m witty,’ he said.

‘That’s so good,’ Eran said. ‘You’re so good.’

‘ _Stop,’_ Mosk whined.

‘Oh no, four things,’ Eran said. ‘It’s not going to get any easier for you to concentrate, so you’d better stay right here with me so you don’t lose track, okay?’

‘Where would I go?’

‘Nowhere,’ Eran said easily, ‘but just in case, I want you to concentrate.’

Eran slipped the tips of his fingers in, then made a low, hungry sound and pushed deeper straight away. Mosk pressed down with his foot, pushed his hips up, uncertain what to do with the stretch of it, the lubricant that was everywhere, the heat in Eran’s fingers. He’d not made his fingers hot like this before.

‘I like how you show care,’ Eran said. ‘Even when you don’t want to. You got me those blankets, and the sea trows already know that I won’t use any others. I know you think it doesn’t count, because it’s not real fire, but the reminders are good. They let me know what kind of creature I am, what kind of creature I can be for you. Are you feeling that heat yet?’

_What kind of a stupid question…?_

Mosk made some weak, garbled response that was nothing more than a syllable that became a moan. Of course he could feel the heat. Before, where Eran trickled that heat in through the skin of his belly, now it spread from the _inside._ The deeper Eran pushed his fingers, the more it coiled through him, snaking around and up his spine, bathing the ends of his lungs, making his cock throb. After being miserably cold climbing the ropes day after day, this was…

He didn’t know what this was, only that he didn’t want it to stop. There was a faint ache from the stretch of Eran’s fingers, he didn’t remember ever being this aware of his body.

‘Are you feeling it, Mosk?’ Eran said, his voice harder.

‘Yes,’ Mosk gasped. ‘Yeah.’

‘Good. Focus, Mosk. Say, ‘you think I’m caring.’’

Mosk groaned, his fingers scraping at his own shoulders, wrists working in the rope. He didn’t want to say _that._ He didn’t believe it was true. But if he disagreed, Eran was just going to say something else nice, and Mosk had a horrible feeling that Eran wasn’t going to run out of stupid, untrue things to say.

‘I can’t,’ he gasped.

Eran’s fingers curled inside of him, beckoning, and the heat made him feel far more sensitive than usual. He cried out, then whimpered when Eran’s other hand curled around his cock, jacking him off quickly.

‘Are you going to fuck me?’ Mosk said, wondering if it would be like last time. Too much and overwhelming and destroying him. Eran didn’t even fuck him last time.

‘Yes,’ Eran said.

‘I don’t need any of this.’

‘I know,’ Eran said. ‘I’m doing it because I want to, and you’ll let me because you want to be good for me, don’t you?’

Mosk nodded blindly, feeling like he was melting.

‘Say ‘you think I’m caring.’ I don’t care if you don’t believe it. _Say it.’_

‘You- You- _Ah…_ please, Eran! _’_

‘No. Come on, Mosk, you’re doing so well. Don’t disappoint me now. I know you can say it.’

Mosk’s free leg kicked down into the bed. Eran’s hand wasn’t slowing down on his cock at all. His palm as hot as the fingers inside of him. Why wasn’t he scared? He should be terrified!

Maybe after nightmares of being surrounded by the ice, his body had made a decision about what it preferred. Right now, though, it overwhelmed him and he twisted, reaching for words that he didn’t believe in, not wanting Eran to be displeased.

‘You think I’m caring,’ Mosk said, his voice vanishing at the end. He wanted to come. Eran’s fingers gently stroked over his prostate, his hand moved over Mosk’s cock, the heat confused his body, sent him straight towards his own release.

‘Good,’ Eran said, leaning over him and gently biting his wrist. The touch was wet, like a kiss, and Mosk felt Eran’s tongue licking over his skin. So warm. ‘That was really good. But it’s obviously getting hard for you to concentrate, so we’re going to slow down now okay? It’ll help you.’

Eran cruelly let go of his cock, and Mosk opened his eyes to see something impish on Eran’s face.

‘Why can’t it just be normal?’ Mosk said. ‘Why can’t you just fuck me?’

‘What, like the people who never cared about you? Like them? Or like the ones who wanted it to hurt, wanted you to suffer, all so some barkeep could get paid and you wouldn’t see a cent of it? You weren’t even a whore, Mosk. They get paid.’

Eran’s fingers stilled inside of him, and Mosk stared, felt strangely like he’d been punched. The Gancanagh…hadn’t he said the same thing?

‘What did you say?’

‘You heard me,’ Eran said. ‘I’m sorry. But it’s still the truth. I’m not going to fuck you like those people, and if I have any say in the matter, you’re never going to go through that again.’

‘But I need it,’ Mosk said.

‘Do you? Because you haven’t been incessantly asking people to fuck you, since you started coming back to yourself. Since your heartsong – whatever it may be – started growing back. Sure, you ask me, but you could’ve gotten fucked on this ship long before now. Not everyone here is nice and good all the time, Mosk. Some of them would be happy to hurt you.’

Eran shook his head a little, looked annoyed. Mosk wondered what he’d done wrong. He wanted to apologise, but it was hard to think of anything to say when Eran talked to him like that.

‘I’m sorry,’ Eran said. ‘I’m being unfair, aren’t I? Here…relax. You tightened up.’

Eran’s fingers moved slowly inside of him, and Mosk gasped, realising what Eran meant by ‘you tightened up’ and felt his cheeks flush. Was he really paying that much attention?

‘You always looked like you didn’t care about what happened to you,’ Eran said softly. ‘But deep down, you do. You’re actually really sensitive. Look.’

Two fingertips sliding back and forth over his prostate, and Mosk’s eyes rolled back as his eyelids squeezed shut.

‘Hey,’ Eran said. ‘Tell me something you didn’t like. Or something you like. It can be anything. Did you hate that it was always in bars and taverns? Something else?’

‘The things they said,’ Mosk said, thinking that it might not be wise to talk about this, but unable to think past the intense pleasure growing between his legs.

‘Like what?’

Mosk remembered the Gancanagh calling him pretty names, but calling him awful things too. He gulped, thumbs brushing over his own throat.

‘They weren’t wrong to…to use those words. If that’s what I am.’

Eran rubbed Mosk’s side and then his belly, and the touch wasn’t a sensuous caress but something firm and grounding, and Mosk thought everything was unfair. Eran knew what to do, and Mosk hadn’t ever known any of this. So how could Eran know?

‘They were wrong,’ Eran said. ‘What words?’

‘Slut,’ Mosk whispered, feeling the weight of it crushing him. ‘Whore.’

‘Shhh,’ Eran said. ‘You’re tensing up again.’

‘Then stop asking me to talk about these things!’

Eran only hushed him again, fingers moving relentlessly inside of him. Mosk was still hard, aching more than before.

‘Okay,’ Eran said. ‘I’ll stop. I’m really glad you shared that with me though. Can I tell you something else I like about you?’

Mosk only moaned. Eran had wrapped his hand around Mosk’s cock again and was jacking it steadily, thumb rubbing against the underside on every upstroke. It was too much, too good, and Eran could talk about whatever he wanted if he kept touching Mosk like that.

‘I like your determination,’ Eran said. ‘I feel like I got a glimpse of who you used to be, when I saw the way you were determined to get to the top of the crow’s nest. Do you think you’re going to grow back the same heartsong? Or will it be something different? You know they say, even when your heartsong changes, you keep the other one like an echo inside of you. I know you gave up for a while, and I know you don’t think of yourself as strong, but…by Kabiri, you are? You really are.’

Mosk didn’t care what Eran thought he was, he wanted to come. His hips rocked side to side, he couldn’t even control the movement, it would make more sense to thrust up or push down, but his body couldn’t contain it. Not without being allowed to come.

‘Please,’ Mosk whispered.

‘Now say, ‘you think I’m determined.’’

‘You think I’m determined,’ Mosk said. ‘But _you’re_ the one who’s being really unfair. Eran, can I come?’

‘No,’ Eran said. ‘You’re going to come on my cock.’

‘Then _fuck_ me,’ Mosk said, his voice loud enough that he shrunk back from his own words. Eran only slowed down, then withdrew the fingers inside of him, rubbing them over his hole instead. Pulling on the rim of him, or slathering more heated lubricant everywhere. Mosk shook his head, back and forth, feeling exposed and raw.

Eran pushed back into him with three fingers instead of two, and Mosk heard himself panting and was embarrassed by all of it. He’d always hated how disgusting sex was. It was wet and messy, or it was too dry and awkward. Even this made a noise, the sound of Eran’s fingers squelching into him, stretching him. He wanted to scream.

‘You’ve broken out into a sweat,’ Eran said, dragging his fingers over his torso. ‘You must feel pretty overheated by now.’

‘I hate you,’ Mosk breathed, forcing his eyes open. ‘I hate you.’

‘I know,’ Eran said, voice dark, expression hooded. ‘I feel like I’ve earned it today. You’re allowed to hate me a little right now. Do you want to know something I’ve learned about myself? I like stringing you along, Mosk. Maybe it’s the nature of my fire, to just consume a little bit more than what’s there. It scared me at first. But I think you like it, Mosk. Even when you hate me.’

Eran pushed all three fingers deep inside of him, then withdrew them and began stretching his rim. It was sharp, on the verge of truly hurting and Mosk didn’t know if he liked it. He was lightly scratching his shoulders and chest with his hands, where Eran had tied him. Contained by the ropes, but spilling apart anyway.

‘Are you with me?’ Eran said. ‘Stay right here.’

‘I’m just…’ Mosk breathed. ‘I _can’t…’_

‘Just a bit more,’ Eran said. ‘You’re making me so happy.’

Mosk whimpered. He didn’t know whether it was true or not, at this point he didn’t care. He’d let Eran wreck him if it meant that Eran would sound that pleased. He was pretty sure that’s exactly what was happening.

Eran knelt up over him, began thrusting his fingers roughly inside of him, and Mosk’s back arched. When he went limp again, unable to keep tensing, he felt lips brush over his. They moved over his mouth a second time. For a moment he wasn’t sure what had happened until he felt a warm tongue brush hot and wet over his bottom lip, the tip sliding into the corner of his mouth.

He opened his eyes as Eran drew back. Eran was looking down where his fingers were sliding into Mosk’s body. Mosk licked the taste of Eran off his mouth. It was a little like charcoal, a little like the death of a forest on his lips.

The trees might never forgive him. He liked it.

‘Okay,’ Eran said. ‘Up.’

He must have been talking gibberish, because Mosk didn’t understand at all. Not until the fingers withdrew from him, moved away from his cock, and instead Eran slid his arms beneath Mosk’s back and lifted him up and forwards until he was kneeling – legs spread across Eran’s thighs. There was enough slack in the rope that as Eran drew him towards the front of the bed, it didn’t hurt his tied ankle at all.

Mosk’s upper body stiffened in alarm, he couldn’t brace himself with his arms at all.

‘Push up with your knees,’ Eran said firmly, and Mosk did it without thinking. One hand stayed strong around his back, keeping him in place, and with his other hand he reached between both of their legs and hitched Mosk’s hips forward, a thumb slipping into him as he did so. Mosk’s head tipped forwards.

‘What…?’

‘Just stay like that for a second,’ Eran said, and then Mosk felt Eran’s cock slipping between his ass cheeks as his wrists bumped into Eran’s shoulder. ‘I guess it’s a bit awkward right now, but...okay, kneel down slowly.’

Mosk did, felt the moment when Eran’s cock notched into position at his entrance and stilled even as Eran’s fingers dug hard into his back and Eran removed his thumb from where it had poked into him.

‘No stopping,’ Eran said hoarsely. ‘Keep going.’

‘I…’

_‘No stopping,’_ Eran ordered. ‘ _Now,_ Mosk.’

The hand Eran used to position his cock moved to the outside of Mosk’s thigh, pulling him down, and Mosk’s voice hitched when he felt the head of Eran’s cock pop inside. He needed Eran’s hand on his thigh to guide him, because Mosk didn’t think he could lower himself slowly or steadily or with much focus at all. Instead, Eran’s hands pulling him down, and Mosk groaned into Eran’s neck and flooded with sensory information.

It was, in its own way, so familiar. Too familiar. He’d known hundreds of cocks. Those that were so small as to hardly be noticeable. Those that were so large he’d bled and kept bleeding and needed his Court status to heal. He knew cocks that had been scaled and furred, others that were stranger still. He knew enough from his vast experience to know that Eran was a good size, but his experience didn’t prepare him in any other way for it.

A shock of fear – this was nothing like what he’d experienced before – and he reached for emptiness. Tried to empty his mind out and feel nothing, make it exactly what it had always been. Nothing. A way to feel _nothing._

‘What?’ Eran said abruptly. ‘What is it? Does it hurt?’

Mosk gasped, panicked, because whenever he’d begged Eran to fuck him in the past, this wasn’t what he’d been asking for.

‘Mosk,’ Eran said, his voice softening. ‘Come on, does it hurt? Is it something else? Is it a memory?’

‘It’s not…’ Mosk managed, voice wretched. Eran wasn’t even all the way in him yet. Mosk’s cock was still hard, straining against his pelvis. _‘Nnh_ , it’s not… Eran, it’s too much, I can’t…’

Eran laughed under his breath. A dark promise that meant a bad client in the past, and now just had Mosk shivering against him. ‘It’s fine, Mosk. You can, I’ve got you, okay?’

Mosk’s head tipped forwards as he was lowered down, legs trembling. He wanted to wrap his arms around Eran’s back or shoulders, instead, his wrists could only twist in the rope. It was so overwhelming, but instead of being shoved into some part of his mind where he was hollow, he was overfull, overheated, breath wet against Eran’s shoulder.

When Eran was all the way inside him, Mosk keened, and Eran kept pulling him down, grinding his own hips upwards.

‘Fuck,’ Eran breathed. ‘By all the fires, Mosk, you feel amazing.’

That was more familiar. That was the sort of thing he’d heard in the past. _You feel amazing. You’re so tight. You’re so hot. You were made for this. You fit me like a glove._

Eran made the words sound new.

‘I was going to drag this out,’ Eran said, laughing in wonder, ‘but…ah… And you? How are you?’

Hilarious, that Eran expected him to _speak,_ when Mosk couldn’t even contain his own thoughts anymore. Eran’s cock pushed up deep inside of him, past the point of comfort, a throbbing hot ache in his gut that Mosk felt in his lower spine, all the way up to the base of his neck. His thighs were splayed on either side of Eran’s, sweat making their skin stick together. Eran’s whole body felt like it had a fire inside of it, and Mosk trembled against him, shifting the muscles of his legs and then whimpering when he felt the way it moved Eran inside of him.

‘Push up a little,’ Eran said. ‘Here. Like this.’

Eran had a handful of his leg, his other arm around Mosk’s side, and he lifted him easily, enough that Mosk felt the way his entrance grabbed onto Eran’s cock like it didn’t want to let go. The way he felt the slide of it. He’d never…he’d never felt so much. Not since Olphix had tortured him… Not since…

But this didn’t hurt in the same way.

‘Hold right there,’ Eran said. ‘Tense your legs, go on.’

Mosk did it without thinking, and then Eran leaned back with one hand on the bed, kept the other on Mosk’s side and arched up, thrusting into Mosk. He eased out, thrust up again, and Mosk’s whole body jolted. He fell forwards, pressing his forehead into Eran’s shoulder. He could barely hold himself up, the sensations were too much.

‘Do you like it?’ Eran said.

Mosk bit into Eran’s skin in response, mad that Eran expected words when he was doing something like _this._

‘Yeah?’ Eran said. ‘You do?’

Fingers trailing gently up Mosk’s back, curving over his ass and then moving up his spine, rubbing at his skin. Mosk felt a thready curl of uneasiness, but it vanished as Eran lowered his hand and kept it at Mosk’s side again. He couldn’t do much more than keep his shaking legs locked, try not to fall backwards.

‘Stay right here, Mosk,’ Eran said. ‘Don’t go anywhere else.’

‘Mm,’ Mosk managed. It was meant to be, _I’m not,_ but he didn’t even know what Eran meant.

‘Good,’ Eran whispered. ‘You’re so lovely.’

He undulated his hips gently below Mosk, rolling in and out in a way that had his cock gliding smoothly over Mosk’s prostate. Mosk would have melted were it not for the strong thighs beneath him, the arm around him, his head against Eran’s shoulder.

‘One more thing, okay, because otherwise I’m going to die and I’ll never get it done. I love how soft you are,’ Eran said, the words coming out in a heated gust over the side of Mosk’s face, over his hair. ‘I used to think you were…a hard person. I think sometimes you still can be, you’ve become that because you need to survive. But the truth is, deep down, alongside that determination and that strength, you’re so soft. It’s a good thing. It makes me want to look after you, but more than that, it means your heart still has give in it, you still care even when you don’t want to care.’

The words flowed in and out, Mosk focused on the way Eran moved inside of him. Was he making his cock warmer than usual? He felt like his whole body was going to come apart from the heat of him. He’d never come from being fucked before, not with only a cock inside of him and no hand on him, jerking him off. But it felt like there was nowhere for the sensations to go, and they were going to end up spilling out of him.

‘Can you say, ‘you like that I’m soft?’’ Eran said, gasping softly as his hips rolled harder. Eran withdrew more of his cock, shoved more of himself inside of Mosk, holding him in place so that he could grind up. Mosk heard a squeaking sound, and realised it was him.

‘Soft…’ Mosk murmured.

He felt it. He felt malleable, like Eran could move him in any position, in any shape, and Mosk would let him.

‘Eran,’ Mosk mouthed, and then jolted when Eran grunted and grasped him with both arms, holding him firm, and fucked up into him with no sign of the tenderness of before.

‘Sorry,’ Eran gasped. ‘Sorry, I can’t- You’re just-’

Mosk’s insides churned, his prostate felt too large, too worn, every slide feeling like it was somehow massaging the base of his cock from the inside, pushing up against his balls, lancing up in spikes that sometimes hurt, sometimes felt like a pleasure so bright it was like staring at the sun.

His own fingernails scraped at his shoulders, and the pain of it was another layer that had his hips rolling down, whimpering in caught breaths as Eran got too deep every single time. Maybe he was meant to use this to feel nothing, but he couldn’t remember how. He wanted, badly, to come. His eyes squeezed shut, forehead slipping in the sweat on Eran’s shoulder. He was so warm. He was going to overflow.

He thought he might have cried out something towards the end, but had no real idea, only feeling his voice move through his mouth as he suddenly curled in on himself, head sliding down Eran’s chest, forehead moving over the black hair that grew there, and Eran’s fingers gripping him tighter than before. Mosk felt the pleasure stretching out through him before it snapped back hard and he came in shivering pulses, Eran still thrusting powerfully into him, holding him in place. Every shove up into him making the orgasm brighter, more unbearable as Mosk wailed.

‘It’s going to burn,’ Eran said abruptly, and the words didn’t make any sense until Eran thrust faster, harder into him and then stilled deep inside of him, holding him so close that Mosk’s whole body slid wetly against Eran’s.

He _felt_ when Eran came inside of him while still riding out the aftershocks of his own release. Felt the burn that caused a low pool of pain deep inside. He made a sound of surprise, stiffening, and Eran held him tight.

‘It won’t last,’ Eran said, his voice trembling the way Mosk’s body did. Eran’s thighs shook and bunched beneath Mosk, and Mosk opened his mouth to Eran’s skin and tasted him and thought of charcoal and black forests and thought that there were probably many ways to burn to death, and Eran had found the best one.

All too soon, the peak of pleasure faded and Mosk was left with strange aftershocks that intermittently bolted through him. His legs were sore, shoulders knotted with tension, and his body was too warm for comfort. Eran breathed hard against him, hands clasping him so tight that Mosk might have struggled against it normally. He was too tired now.

‘You fucked me,’ Mosk said, his voice strained.

Eran laughed a little, hands gentling around Mosk, shifting him. Eran’s softening cock slipped out of him, and Mosk exhaled hard at the feeling of come dripping down his legs. It was almost scalding. Mosk imagined his insides, reddened from Eran spilling inside of him, and pressed closer.

‘My soft Mosk,’ Eran said, moving until he could slide his thighs free. He rubbed Mosk’s legs and then lifted his hands and undid the knot at the rope binding both of his forearms together. ‘Did it burn too much?’

‘It’s… I don’t…’ Mosk swallowed roughly. ‘I don’t hate it.’

‘Good,’ Eran breathed. ‘Fuck. That was amazing. You’re amazing. Can I kiss you?’

‘No,’ Mosk said, pressing his lips together and remembering that Eran stole a kiss from him anyway. More than one. ‘You kissed me before.’

His forearms went lax as soon as they were untied, then he clumsily shifted, propping himself up on the bed and rubbing at the sweat dripping down his forehead. It was itchy, and he felt a little like how he used to feel after people had seen him in taverns, when he’d come back to himself and nothing was comfortable.

‘I don’t like this part,’ Mosk said.

‘I know,’ Eran said. ‘I think you’re going to have to learn what afterglow is.’

He rubbed Mosk’s upper arms, his shoulders, then reached back and dug his fingers in, below Mosk’s shoulder blades, and it ached and didn’t feel too gentle and Mosk slumped forwards, palms slipping on Eran’s legs, his belly. He moved his fingers until his thumb could rest in Eran’s pubic hair, black and crinkly, the skin beneath vulnerable and soft.

‘Tired?’ Eran said.

‘You talked so much,’ Mosk complained.

‘I know,’ Eran said. ‘I was so scared you’d… I was scared you’d vanish on me.’

Mosk didn’t say that he wanted it, he didn’t say that he was scared he might never vanish at all if this was how Eran kept treating him. His eyelids fluttered shut as Eran worked at the rope around his ankle, massaging the skin beneath it with a firm thumb.

‘Are you going to tell Augus about this?’ Mosk said.

‘It’s none of his business,’ Eran said. ‘It’s none of his business what I do with you, or what you do. I get advice from him, but he doesn’t get a window into us. People don’t get that side of you anymore, Mosk. Not unless you really want to give it to them. And even then… Ah, I’m not like other fae, Mosk. I don’t want you to sleep with anyone else.’

Mosk’s body slid weakly down until his head rested upon Eran’s lap, until he could draw spirals onto the bedspread, damp with their sweat as it was.

‘I didn’t know you could use heat like that,’ Mosk said.

‘It was a risk,’ Eran said.

‘Maybe…do it again?’

Eran moved down beside him, which meant that Mosk could no longer rest on Eran’s thigh. He grumbled until Eran slipped his arm beneath Mosk’s head and let him rest there instead. Mosk rolled his head back and forth, before settling with a sigh.

A thumb traced beneath his eyes, wiping tears away, and Mosk grunted out a sound and then jerked backwards.

‘Not that,’ he said sharply.

‘Memories?’ Eran said.

Mosk nodded once.

Even now, even here, the ghost of Davix and Olphix remained. The Mages tracing his tears away tenderly, or the time Olphix licked them away and then laughed, declaring the taste of them to be repellent. Mosk’s breathing stuttered and he moved closer to Eran, wanting a warmth that felt good, instead of the one that had taken everything away from him.

‘I’ve got you,’ Eran said. ‘It’s okay, Mosk. I’m right here. I’m so proud of you.’

Mosk didn’t think there was anything for him to be proud of, but in that moment he was willing to listen to any amount of nonsense, as long as it sounded kind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter 'Lies of Omission' -
> 
> ‘I am remembering,’ Davix said softly. ‘But only in bits and pieces, parts of a whole that add up to a tainted tapestry. Every sliver or slender thought bends me towards him, but he isn’t here, and I only receive you. Please, have you seen him? My brother? Have you passed a message on?’
> 
> ‘No,’ Mosk said. 
> 
> ‘He’s hidden himself,’ Davix said. ‘He always used to do this. Can you imagine? A millennia of hide and seek, sought and found. He said it honed me to seek him, and so. But I cannot leave this ice, and I try and turn my mind to old magic, but it has deserted me. He doesn’t know I’m here, and now I am hiding – quite against my will – from him. Nameless one, I so rarely beg boons from anyone, but please-’
> 
> ‘I’m not telling him _anything,’_ Mosk said. ‘I don’t know where he is. I don’t want to know! He’s a monster!’


	9. Lies of Omission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! 
> 
> It's slowly coming to my attention that most people haven't read the [Fae Tales canon extras!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/170177) At this point, I'd really recommend that - if you felt at all inclined - folks specifically checked out the canon Augus/Raven Prince 
> 
> [A Broken Feather Straightened](https://archiveofourown.org/works/973180) (and its sequel),   
> [These Troubled Times](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2601050/chapters/5793404)
> 
> It's an excellent primer into the complex relationship that Augus and the Raven Prince used to have, and for Augus lovers, it's a great example of how radically Augus changes his behaviours and Domination style depending on the client. These works don't specifically tie into any one chapter of this book, and you can read the book without them, but for those who find the Raven Prince interesting, or want to get to know him better, that's the truest place to start. It's also an actual snapshot of their relationship while it happened, versus Augus' narration that comes later in COFT.

_Mosk_

*

‘Oh, fair friend, you have returned!’

Mosk jolted, opened his eyes and saw Davix standing over him as frigid cold leaked into his too-warm body. He scrambled backwards, fingers digging painfully into permafrost. Davix’s expression shifted to one of concern.

‘Fuck off!’ Mosk shouted.

‘You are ever afraid of me,’ Davix said. ‘I am only a ghost, I can cast no cantrips to harm you, can goad no grievances from you. Please, nameless one, stay just a minute, a moment, won’t you?’

Mosk clapped his hands over his face as his breathing became hoarse and ragged. He couldn’t keep doing this. Maybe _Eran_ made the dreams happen. The last time he’d had one, Eran had turned him inside out, maybe he’d cast Mosk’s mind open to this awfulness.

‘I am remembering,’ Davix said softly. ‘But only in bits and pieces, parts of a whole that add up to a tainted tapestry. Every sliver or slender thought bends me towards him, but he isn’t here, and I only receive you. Please, have you seen him? My brother? Have you passed a message on?’

‘No,’ Mosk said.

‘He’s hidden himself,’ Davix said. ‘He always used to do this. Can you imagine? A millennia of hide and seek, sought and found. He said it honed me to seek him, and so. But I cannot leave this ice, and I try and turn my mind to old magic, but it has deserted me. He doesn’t know I’m here, and now I am hiding – quite against my will – from him. Nameless one, I so _rarely_ beg boons from anyone, but please-’

‘I’m not telling him _anything,’_ Mosk said. ‘I don’t know where he is. I don’t want to know! He’s a monster!’

‘So you _have_ met him,’ Davix said warmly, and Mosk looked up to see Davix clutching his hands to his chest, eyelids hiding his pretty eyes, a wistful smile on his face. ‘My great destroyer, _oh._ My wonder of wonders. My wise, wonderful ward and both of us, wedded together.’

A pause, and Davix moved his cupped palms in front of him, and stared between them soberly.

‘Now sundered,’ he said, smile vanishing.

‘You’re a monster, too,’ Mosk said, his voice breaking as he pushed himself up.

‘Well, what else?’ Davix said, smiling. ‘This time, less so. We prepared a plan, proving difficult to execute. We needed much magic, more than even we possessed when we blended our streams.’

Mosk shook with rage, with fear. He _knew_ they needed magic. Knew because his was gone because of them! Because it was almost impossible to climb to the top of the crow’s nest, because he was always tired, because of them!

‘May I tell you a tale?’ Davix said.

‘Not if it’s _evil,’_ Mosk said.

‘Then I think I shall,’ Davix said. ‘It is playful, not _evil._ Once, imagine, a land where there is no such word as underfae. Because all fae are underfae, and if they live longer, or work hard, or leap into luck’s fair graces, they gain longevity, greater healing, greater power, greater magic.’

‘They change status,’ Mosk said, confused.

‘But no!’ Davix said. ‘They are still just _fae._ There are Kings and Queens, and Lords and Ladies, but everyone is still just themselves. The monarchs only invulnerable because they keep Mages in their Courts to charm them with alchemy. Then, now, imagine the two most powerful Mages that have ever lived wondering what it would look like to make classes.’

‘Why?’

‘Boredom,’ Davix said, smirking, looking so much like his old self instead of the more innocent version Mosk knew here, that Mosk began to claw and pick at the skin and bark on his arms to try and wake himself. ‘Our bread and butter, why we took ourselves to almost any task at all. Do you know how much energy it takes, to ring global changes from the very _ether_ of the entire earth? You would think such a thing was never to be wrought from the world, but why would we exist, the two of us, if not to do such things? This was our geas with whatever gods granted us life. Do not grant us such power, if you do not intend us to _use_ it.’

Mosk remembered the Nain Rouge mentioning it only in passing, and it hadn’t stuck at the time. The words had coasted over him, not anchoring into him as they did now. He couldn’t imagine it. A time when underfae didn’t exist. When Court, Inner Court, Capital and all of the statuses weren’t things that fae went to the Seelie and Unseelie Courts for.

‘What did the monarchs do, then?’ Mosk said.

‘They were quite often killed,’ Davix said. ‘Those that weren’t, were beloved by so many. We wondered if our realm might be more rigorous against threats if there was a nigh invulnerable monarch on each side of the river. For a time, that was true.’

‘And then?’

‘Boredom,’ Davix said, laughing. ‘We wished to reverse it, to undo the power of the Courts, the invincibility of the ones who rule over their Kingdoms.’

Davix squatted down, looking up at Mosk and smiling.

‘We wished to undo it all, to unmake our mark across the land, and see what might manifest.’

Mosk couldn’t think of what to say. His arms were bleeding from the small places he’d managed to lever up some bark or break open the skin. It was gutting, to be here. To stand in the shadows of the dead, the light of the ice, and listen to truths that sounded like no dream Mosk could invent for himself.

‘Are you real?’ Mosk said. ‘Am I dreaming?’

‘You are dreaming,’ Davix said. ‘This is real. You do not know about dreamwalking? What sort of Mage are you?’

‘I’m not a Mage,’ Mosk said. ‘I won’t _ever_ be a Mage.’

‘But you are dreamwalking,’ Davix said, standing. ‘I am not strong enough to send for you. It is not my will that wants you here. Something in you, yearns for something lost in this place. Is it not me? I am haunting you, but you haunt me also.’

‘I’m not doing it,’ Mosk said. ‘I hate it! I never wanted to come here! I don’t want these dreams! I hate them!’

Davix sighed, standing and smoothing his robe with his hands, turning away from Mosk, walking down the cold, blue corridor.

‘Where are you going?’ Mosk said.

‘I shared with you, and you repudiate. I ask to see my brother, you answer with rejection. I leverage what little I have, you yell like a child. I daresay I know my own desperation, for I live with it always, but entertaining your tantrums is a dreary process, and I never wanted a child.’

Davix continued to walk away, but as he reached the bend in the corridor, he paused and looked back, blue eyes glittering, mouth set in what might be sadness on anyone else’s face.

‘Find me again,’ he said. ‘I ache and I’m lonely, I am nothing without him, I have been split from all I once held dear. My magic, my heartsong, my brother. I do not fade, I can only surmise I am here to see him once more. I have faith.’ He looked at Mosk for a long time and then said in a more muted voice that still echoed off the smooth curves of the ice. ‘I must have faith.’

‘You don’t remember who I am?’ Mosk said.

‘You are nothing,’ Davix said, dismissively. ‘Of course I don’t remember.’

_I’m the reason you’re dead._

‘You really don’t remember?’

‘Olphix would know,’ Davix said, and then he tipped his head back and looked up through the ice. ‘I wait for you, brother. I wait, and wander, and wait longer still.’

He sighed, then walked away until he was gone.

*

Mosk woke abruptly, sitting up to kick the covers off him, groaning sharply at the pain in his lower back. He knuckled his fist into it, then realised _why_ he was so sore and looked quickly at Eran, who slept beside him, still and peaceful.

A small sound of dismay, and Mosk slid to the end of the bed, getting up and reaching for his shirt, his throat raw and his body aching and _cold._ If he stayed, he’d get warm. Eran was the warmest point in the room, the fire when there were no flames to see.

A bang, Mosk flinched backwards, and the door burst open, a silvery ribbon appearing and twirling in the air, glittery bits of magic falling from it. Then behind the ribbon, the flapping sound of frantic wings, a giant raven almost overshooting the doorway then wheeling back, folding into the Raven Prince and standing with a rapier in one hand, a wild fervid look in his black eyes.

‘What did you do?’ the Raven Prince said sharply as the door swung shut behind him. He looked around the room in confusion. ‘Where did he go?’

Eran woke with a start, Mosk backed up, calves brushing the bench that sat before the aquarium.

The Raven Prince marched towards Mosk and gripped his jaw with a brutal hand, staring into his eyes, and Mosk felt _something_ brush across his thoughts, his mind, and then he was talking and he couldn’t help it.

‘A dream! It was only a dream!’

‘No,’ the Raven Prince said, shaking him. ‘What are you _doing?_ Why would you do this? Who are you?’

‘Stop!’ Eran cried. Mosk saw him move to get up in the corner of his eye, and then the Raven Prince shifted his stance, clipped out a sentence in a language like no other Mosk had ever heard, and Eran froze.

Mosk turned to look, but the fingers on his jaw forced him back.

‘What did you do?’ Mosk said. ‘What did you do to him? Stop it!’

The Raven Prince stared down at Mosk, his hair wild and mussed, still smelling of fresh salt and somehow of the ozone that clung in the wind. His black eyebrows were pulled low on his face, his expression forbidding.

Then, the Raven Prince asked him a question in that sharp, clattering language, and though Mosk didn’t know the words or even the meaning of the question, he answered in a rush, the words ripped more painfully from him than if it had been Augus’ compulsions alone.

‘Mosk Manytrees! I’m an Aur dryad! I don’t _know_ why I keep having these dreams but it’s something to do with the ice and I can’t stop it and I just want it to stop!’

A huge _boom,_ Mosk cringed, thinking it was the Raven Prince’s magic. Instead, the door to Eran’s room banged open a second time, Gwyn standing there with his sword out, hulking in the doorway.

‘Unhand him!’ Gwyn shouted.

The Raven Prince made a face that only Mosk could see, then let go of him immediately, stepping back and holding up his hands. Mosk stumbled backwards, touching his jaw where the Raven Prince had grabbed him. Then, hurriedly, he reached for his shirt on the ground and pulled it on. It got caught on his arms, his head, and he yanked impatiently. Whatever magic holding Eran in place was released. Eran sat up in the bed, staring between all of them.

‘What dreams?’ Eran said.

‘Why are you here?’ Gwyn said to the Raven Prince, swinging his sword up at him. Mosk wanted to warn him that he spoke a language that ripped answers free, but the Raven Prince only kept his hands up and stared at Mosk like he was the least trustworthy thing on the ship.

‘He is connected to Davix and Olphix,’ the Raven Prince said.

‘We _know_ that,’ Gwyn said impatiently. ‘Why are you _here?_ Don’t prevaricate with me, I don’t have the time for your nonsense. Either give me a clear answer – dumb it down if you have to – or spend some time in the lowest levels of this ship, in the waterlogged cabins where the sea fae sleep.’

‘I have taken pains, my entire life, to avoid anything to do with them,’ the Raven Prince said, gesturing to the necklace that Gwyn hadn’t been able to break off his neck. ‘I do not mean that Mosk Manytrees is mysteriously connected to the plague of ice that you cannot defeat, I mean he has an active, lingering connection that goes beyond the curses placed upon him, and he made a connection with one of them tonight.’

‘I did?’ Mosk said, breathless and queasy.

‘It must have been something, you were always evasive when I probed on the subject,’ the Raven Prince said, slowly lowering his hands. Gwyn kept the sword up, but the Raven Prince ignored it, walking back towards Mosk. Gwyn moved to stand in front of him, and the Raven Prince made a faint sound of exasperation in the back of his throat.

‘If you want answers,’ the Raven Prince said, ‘you’ll let me work.’

‘We have done quite well getting answers without you around,’ Gwyn said. ‘If you harm him…’

The Raven Prince held up his hand with the still-bandaged finger. ‘I think we all know that you have an excellent capacity for follow through. I don’t enjoy pain.’

‘What dreams?’ Eran said, interrupting them. ‘Mosk, is this about the dreams you’ve been having? The ones that are different?’ Eran looked at Gwyn. ‘He won’t tell me about them.’

Mosk stood there, cornered, his heart hammering harder than before. He was half-naked, Eran wholly so, he was sure the room smelled of sex though he couldn’t smell it himself. The Raven Prince and Gwyn didn’t seem to care, but Mosk had never wanted them to find out about the dreams and he didn’t want them to find out now _,_ like _this_.

Even the King was staring at him, eyes narrowed, and Mosk sat down with a thump onto the bench, pulling his shirt down over his genitals and staring up at them all. He still felt so cold.

To his surprise, the Raven Prince sat on the corner of the bed closest to him, facing him. His gaze was intent.

‘What do you dream about?’

‘They’re just dreams,’ Mosk whispered.

‘No. You know they’re not. How long have you been having them?’

‘Since…the ship,’ Mosk said, looking to Eran and then looking away, because he’d lied. For such a long time he’d just…said nothing at all. He didn’t want Eran to know about this. The ice had killed his family.

‘What do you dream about?’

‘The ice,’ Mosk said. ‘I walk through tunnels in the ice, and there are bodies in there, and I talk to someone.’

‘I know,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘Who?’

‘I…don’t want to say,’ Mosk said, nervously looking in the King’s direction.

_‘Who?’_ Gwyn commanded, the tip of his sword scraping against the ground. Mosk hunched.

‘D-Davix.’

Eran gasped.

Then, a long silence, and Mosk wouldn’t look at any of them. This was the worst. He wished that he could be covered in blankets like Eran still was. He fidgeted absently, then winced. When he looked down, he saw marks on his forearms like he’d been picking at them. He’d done that in the dream, hadn’t he?

‘Please,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘Elaborate.’

‘He told me he’s dead, and he’s lost his magic, and he can’t remember me, but he remembers Olphix and he says he’s haunting me and I only ever want to leave when I see him but I keep going back.’

‘Is he making you return to him?’ the Raven Prince said sharply. ‘Because if he can make you dreamwalk, he has not lost his magic.’

Mosk was silent for so long that the Raven Prince turned to say something to Gwyn.

‘N-no,’ Mosk said, pushing back into the bench and hunching forwards. ‘He told me tonight that I was doing it. But I don’t want to be doing it! I have no control over it! I wouldn’t do it if I knew how not to do it!’

The Raven Prince stood and walked over to him. ‘I would like to use some magic to see whether he has an active link to you, but I cannot use my own, or risk their noticing me if they have. Your Majesty, might I use you as an intermediary?’

A low grumbling sound of discontent, but then Gwyn walked over and said: ‘What do you need?’

‘Your hand, please. You will feel a pulling sensation.’

‘Oengus did this when the ice attacked at his tower.’

The Raven Prince said nothing, and Mosk looked up just enough to see the Raven Prince lower a hand with long fingers over Gwyn’s palm. His fingertips rested gently, but whatever he did, Gwyn jolted and then hissed. The Raven Prince then touched the fingers of his other hands to Mosk’s hair. The touch was so gentle and light, felt so much like the work of Davix and Olphix that Mosk ducked out of the way, gasping.

‘Stay still,’ the Raven Prince said crisply. ‘I am not going to hurt you.’

‘I don’t like magic.’

‘I care not,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘Now stay still.’

The fingertips brushed his hair again, and Mosk squeezed his eyes shut. But then Eran made some soft sound and when Mosk opened them again, he saw gleaming red light all around him. It emanated from _him_. He stared down at himself. In places, there were small flashes of a white-blue, like fish leaping back and forth.

‘What is it?’ Gwyn said.

‘Mosk made a connection to Davix when he killed him,’ the Raven Prince mused. ‘I do believe he’s dead, but they are Mages, like me, and they likely have magic in place to make their deaths…complicated. This is useful.’

‘How?’

‘If it is true, that he does not remember and cannot access his magic,’ the Raven Prince said, ‘then you can exploit him, but he cannot exploit you. At least, not as he did.’

‘Make the dreams stop,’ Mosk begged.

‘No,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘In fact, I think I want you to have another one, and I think I’d like to come along to see for myself what is happening. But I shall need to go disguised.’

The Raven Prince was silent for a long time and eventually Mosk couldn’t help it and looked up, peering through the red glow to see the distant, troubled look on the Raven Prince’s face. It was only marginally consoling that the Raven Prince seemed to dislike the Mages as much as Mosk did. It scared him too. The Raven Prince didn’t have a staff, and he was so strong.

‘I’m not going,’ Mosk whispered.

The Raven Prince looked down with an impatient disappointment that ate into Mosk’s chest.

‘Do you understand what Olphix could do? Could do right now if he so chose?’ the Raven Prince said. ‘He is a fae affected by grief, for he only ever loved one other, who you killed. Olphix and Davix were strong enough to destroy the world together, but they _chose_ not to. Instead, they made a school. They cursed the land, yes, but never to _destroy_ it. They educated. They shared what they stole with all of us, whether we wanted it or not. Olphix alone will gather power to himself like a tornado that picks up projectiles, he will take us all down with him. We are on a timeline and even if you are petty enough to wish to die, sapling, I am petty enough to force you to do this either way.’

‘They never wanted world destruction?’ Gwyn said.

‘Of course not,’ the Raven Prince said, looking over at Gwyn and then dismissing the magic on Mosk with a flick of his fingers. The red glow vanished. ‘They are thorough, we’d all be dead.’

‘Do you know what they were seeking to do this time?’ Gwyn said.

Mosk looked between them and then something about his expression must have drawn their eyes.

‘Do _you_ know?’ Gwyn said in amazement.

Mosk looked at the Raven Prince. ‘It’s real?’ he said.

‘I will need to confirm,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘Tell us what you know.’

‘He said…’ Mosk said, looking between them both and then feeling so shaky he looked past them to the shape of Eran in the bed. As though Eran knew, he shifted so that Mosk could see his face past the Raven Prince’s arm. But Eran didn’t look happy either. Mosk couldn’t blame him. Eran had asked what the dreams were about, if someone was hurting him, if someone was scaring him. Mosk had yelled at him for it.

Mosk’s legs drew together, he pulled harder on the shirt he was wearing.

‘He said they wanted to undo the power of statuses and, um, remove the invincibility of Kings. Since they gave it to them in the first place. But statuses used to be a thing that didn’t exist, and there was no such thing as underfae. There were no pilgrimages to the Courts. The monarchs didn’t have the power to grant status. Then they came along and changed it, and probably made us all forget?’

A long silence, and Mosk wondered if any of this information was useful. The Nain Rouge had said the same thing, she just hadn’t said that Davix and Olphix were planning to undo it.

‘So,’ Gwyn said softly. ‘Something that I’ve always wanted for the fae realm, is the task they were planning to execute?’

‘It cannot happen anymore,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘It can _never_ be undone. Without Davix, Olphix cannot summon enough magic to complete the task, of this I am confident. We are stuck in a system they forced us into.’

‘Because of me,’ Mosk said.

‘In part,’ the Raven Prince said breezily. ‘But they were very reckless. Removing a heartsong should never be done by one party alone. Hubris meant they had assumed they were becoming impossibly strong alone. In many respects that’s true, but to pit themselves against the sacred, animate essence of all life… If they’d worked together, none of this would be happening. You would be dead. The class system forced upon the world would be unmade.’

The Raven Prince then turned to Gwyn, expression sober. ‘You _wanted_ what they wanted? Not a fan of the rigidity of the system?’

‘I didn’t know it was possible.’

‘It’s not now,’ the Raven Prince said, closing his eyes briefly.

‘You mean…they were trying to do something _good?’_ Eran said, sounding shaken.

‘They were reversing something they’d done,’ Mosk whispered. ‘They did it in the first place. He said it was boredom.’

‘Likely they were trying to reverse their magic back to a clean slate,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘The world is their sandbox, but they tired of these spires of sand they made and could not undo them without pairing their magic together. Olphix and Davix could work as single agents, but were always strongest when they worked together. Their energy amplified. It’s rare. A bond not even seen between apprentice and Mage.’

‘And now?’ Gwyn said.

‘Now…’ the Raven Prince looked about the room as though people might be listening in. ‘Olphix may make an attempt to undo what they both put forth, but he will fail. It explains fully why he has drained the classless. When he fails, if it has not happened already… We will all be in great danger.’

‘I’ll proxy for you,’ Gwyn said abruptly. ‘If you wish to go with him into the dream.’

‘You won’t enjoy it,’ the Raven Prince said, arching a black brow at him.

‘But you won’t go to Mosk alone, will you?’

‘No,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘I cannot.’

‘Then show me how to do this.’

‘Are you so determined to learn something that you’ll put yourself in danger?’ the Raven Prince said, the question sounding innocuous enough, but the tone sending a chill down Mosk’s spine.

‘You don’t know me very well,’ Gwyn said, smiling.

‘I don’t know you at all,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘Even if your magic is…fascinating. But first, no more of your objections, sapling. We’ll need you pliant, not resistant. Good night.’

The Raven Prince placed an index finger against Mosk’s forehead, and Mosk stared up at the Raven Prince in confusion, and then his eyes rolled back in his head. Eran said something in alarm, Gwyn too, but it was too late.

*

Mosk walked through the tunnels of ice and felt a presence beside him. When he looked, a large white stag kept pace with him. The stag had pale blue eyes, branching antlers, felt familiar but was wholly alien at the same time. It said nothing, did nothing to indicate that it knew Mosk, and Mosk rubbed at his face and kept walking. He vaguely recalled that someone was supposed to be coming with him and he thought the stag might be Gwyn, but the stag didn’t feel like Gwyn.

A clearing of ice appeared before them, Davix there, waiting with his hands tucked into his coat and curiosity on his face.

‘And marry, who might this be?’ Davix said.

‘I don’t know,’ Mosk said. It was truthful. He couldn’t be sure who was beside him. Gwyn, the Raven Prince, or some other fae or spirit.

‘This is a sort of shapeshifting,’ Davix said, gesturing to the stag without looking at it. ‘To combine dreamwalking with shapeshifting is not difficult, once you have already determined how to dreamwalk.’

‘You walked away from me last time,’ Mosk said.

‘So, rallying, you return with reinforcements,’ Davix said. ‘Are you here to harm me? I cannot fight back. I have no corporeal form, only after-image. I have no magic, only the memory of it.’

‘You really don’t remember me?’

‘You say it so often, it is becoming clear to me that you do not wish for me to remember you. I hurt you, or you hurt me. Such is the stuff of life. Too late now, I’m dead, and you come with a magical stag that you cannot manage. Do you know how to use your own magic?’

‘I have none.’

‘Hit or miss?’ Davix said. ‘That hypothesis…it’s wrong. You wear plenty. They cling to you, grow and graze on you. They are the moss to your tree. Someone should show you.’

The playfulness, the lilt in Davix’s voice was gone. He looked between Mosk and the stag, then sighed. If Mosk didn’t know any better, he’d say that Davix was depressed, no longer maintaining the cheery façade of before.

‘Neither of you are here to take me to him, nor bring him to me,’ Davix said. ‘I am no hail host, nor your party favour. Grant me what I wish, or simply whisht, leave me be.’

Mosk was emboldened by the change in Davix’s attitude. He walked slowly up to him, trembling all over, as the stag followed behind him. Davix didn’t turn to face him. When Mosk reached out to grasp his motley in his hands, Davix only turned and looked down at Mosk’s hands and then looked at Mosk.

‘It means nothing,’ Davix said. ‘Perhaps, as a ghost, I merely make use of what ameliorates my soul.’

The motley didn’t feel like cloth, the texture was all wrong. Mosk knew then, that Davix was dead. Knew it in the way the long coat against his hand and fingers was only an imprint of something that was once real. Mosk stared down at it, his breath misted before him, he ignored the cold and felt a clamouring of dull and distant rage. Thinking of the moss on the shell back in his own bedroom, the Raven Prince telling him that he was the one dream walking to Davix and not the other way around, he wondered…

The motley tore beneath his fingers, the diamonds separating, the threads snapping. Davix stared down, eyebrows rising.

‘What does it mean?’ Mosk said. ‘To tear it?’

Mosk tore it further. He stared up in spite, but Davix didn’t have eyes for him. He stared only at the motley.

‘We sew every diamond by hand, we must learn the craft to do it,’ Davix said. ‘They say it is a tradition of the School of the Staff, but long ago, before that, it was the story of my people. Of course, we killed them all. Crushing them and keeping their magic to ourselves. Each bit of fabric had forced upon it the strongest magics; of protection, of our skills. The white, on mine, means ice. On another, it might mean light. On another, it might mean death. Another, life. And on and on, into infinity.’

Davix reached down to touch the place where Mosk had torn the motley, and Mosk jerked his hands away, stepped back, gasping. Davix slowly brought the two pieces of his coat together like he could mend the tear. He couldn’t.

‘It took centuries,’ Davix said softly. ‘Centuries to craft this. Most Mages now only take decades. It has never been torn before.’

Davix looked at Mosk.

‘This means I have been defeated. In truth, it means I am dead.’

After a moment, Davix shrugged off the coat entirely, leaving himself in the black clothing he wore beneath it. Non-descript black pants, a long-sleeved black shirt. He gathered up the apparition of the coat with its painstakingly hand-sewn diamonds, centuries of magic woven and spoken into them, and cradled it to his chest like a sick child. He turned as though to leave, but at the last moment, he turned back and looked to the stag.

‘Have I hailed you before? Upon a bridge perhaps? Baffling. I can’t recall. Ghosts live grave lives indeed.’

Davix laughed to himself, then began humming a melodic song as he turned and walked away. He kept the coat cradled to his chest, and Mosk looked down at the hands that had torn it, and didn’t know himself.

The stag swung its great pale head towards him, and he woke.

*

‘Davix is severely debilitated,’ the Raven Prince said. Mosk heard it through his gasping. He was sitting back against the bench, the Raven Prince standing before him. Eran was dressed. Gwyn looked at the Raven Prince hungrily, but he didn’t seem angry. Mosk stared at his shaking hands and gulped, feeling sick to his stomach.

‘You are sure?’ Gwyn said. ‘But it’s him?’

‘Pay attention, I wouldn’t have called him _Davix_ if I believed it wasn’t him.’ The Raven Prince turned to Mosk. ‘You could learn a lot from him, I think he’s willing to teach you.’

‘What?’

‘He takes the time to explain things to you, and he _did_ used to be one of the finest teachers in the School of the Staff, having founded it,’ the Raven Prince said. Then he stared off for a little while, and shrugged. ‘Use him. We will talk about this later. I need to think.’

‘No,’ Gwyn said. ‘You will come with me and report this properly.’

‘I will come to you in due time,’ the Raven Prince said dismissively, walking past him.

Gwyn swung up his sword to block him and the Raven Prince hissed, looking back at Gwyn with sudden venom. He raised his hand, muttered something that crackled beneath his breath, and a sucking sound filled the room, followed by a bright, red wind.

It died down quickly, but Gwyn’s sword crumbled into dust, his clothing was shredded, he bled from multiple tiny wounds on his skin. Gwyn swayed briefly, before steadying.

‘You say you will not allow disrespect, well, _nor will I,’_ the Raven Prince said, opening the door. ‘I was King for far longer than you, and any good will you have in that Unseelie Kingdom you have in part because you suckle at the teat of my hard work. Now, I said I will come to you in due time, and that is exactly what I shall do. Threaten me again, and learn what I can still do even without a staff, Gwyn ap Nudd.’

The door slammed behind the Raven Prince, and Gwyn stood there, staring at the bladeless hilt he held in his hand.

‘This withstood my light in battle,’ Gwyn said, eyes wide.

Then without another word for either Eran or Mosk, he left, closing the door behind him, the dust of his sword on the ground.

Mosk stayed on the bench for another few seconds, then scrambled for his pants, pulling them on quickly in case more royalty and ex-royalty decided to pay a visit and humiliate him. His hands were still shaking. He looked to Eran for reassurance, then stopped at the expression on Eran’s face.

‘What?’ Mosk said, pausing with his hands on the fastening of his pants.

‘You lied to me,’ Eran said, sitting on the blankets, staring at Mosk like he didn’t know him.

‘I’m Unseelie.’

‘You lied about seeing _Davix,’_ Eran said. ‘Which is really important, Mosk! What if he was the one summoning _you?_ What if he’d been _using_ you? And you just kept… All this time, you didn’t tell me even when I asked you. I asked you a lot!’

‘I didn’t want to tell you!’ Mosk said.

‘What else are you hiding?’ Eran said. ‘Would I even know?’

Mosk thought about the moss growing on the shell in his room and swallowed the sinking feeling in his chest. Mosk couldn’t tell him everything. Bad enough he knew that Mosk now had an official connection to Davix, one that – apparently – he’d made. Mosk rubbed at his arms and stared at Eran’s bed. It had been so warm.

His lower back still hurt, it was hard to believe they’d just fucked, and Mosk felt further away from Eran than ever.

‘I needed to lie,’ Mosk said. ‘I’m Unseelie.’

‘But I’m not,’ Eran said. ‘And you know that lies hurt me more because of what I am. I tried everything to help you. I would’ve helped you.’

‘You would’ve told Gwyn,’ Mosk said.

‘To help! I thought- I thought you trusted me more. Would trust me with something like this. I get that it’s hard for you, but... Since the Mantissa, I thought things had gotten better.’

It stung, the look on Eran’s face. Mosk wasn’t going to apologise! One of his hands clenched into a fist and he walked towards the door, feeling like Eran was doing everything wrong. But if Eran was doing everything wrong, Mosk was the cause.

‘Where are you going?’ Eran said.

‘Do you want me to stay?’ Mosk said. He turned back, looked at Eran on the fire-coloured blankets.

Eran was silent, it was obvious that he had to think about it. Mosk knew it was for the best if he left. Eran was far too good for him anyway, and could have anyone, instead of a _liar_ who hurt people. It was hard making himself stand there, waiting to see what Eran would say. A part of him still wanted to crawl back under the covers, to wake with Eran next to him, to have a space where he could grumble and fret, and Eran would smile at him with his amber eyes.

‘I think you should go,’ Eran said.

Mosk’s heart skipped a step. It was the right thing for Eran to say, he knew it was, but it hurt more than he expected. Eran had said all those nice things about him.

None of them had been real.

‘If you can’t be more honest with me,’ Eran said, ‘what’s the point?’

Mosk placed his hand on the cold doorknob. Touched by the Raven Prince, the King, and now him. He waited for Eran to tell him he’d changed his mind. To be forgiving, like he always was.

_Why are you waiting? What do you expect him to do? You know you fucked up. You’re still fucking up._

He opened the door and closed it behind him, stood in the empty corridor, and sipped tiny, fast breaths. He knew he had no right to feel so upset.

*

Sleeping wasn’t happening. Mosk walked above deck and stood for a moment, getting soaked by the rain, the stars blotted out by thick clouds. The ship sparkled like the stars, the magical lights persisting where they were strung around, but the rain made it harder to see. Mosk sniffed, wiped at his face, let the rain fall on him. It wasn’t as cold as he expected.

He walked slowly, his mind blank, and when he reached one of the rope shrouds he looked up at the crow’s nest. He couldn’t see it properly. When he placed his hand on the thick rope, it was wet, but not slippery. It was rough under his hands, like the bark of certain trees that just gained more grip when soaked.

Climbing was hard. His legs were fatigued, his body was sore, it was probably stupid and he’d probably fall if he attempted to climb the crow’s nest. But he wanted to get as far away from Eran and his bed and his words as possible, he wanted to look out on a world that didn’t care about him, where he was too small to matter, so small he couldn’t be hurt.

‘Stupid,’ he muttered to himself as he climbed upwards.

The rain lightened as he climbed, but his hair was already drenched. Water dripped off his toes and fingertips. He reached the metal spokes, wincing as they were abrasive on his hands. He looked up, panting, then continued onwards. He hoped he’d fall, but his body was better at this than it had been only hours ago. Was it his magic returning? His heartsong? Something else?

Mosk didn’t want another heartsong, but he ruefully knew he probably had _something_ there. It was likely unformed. That was how it went when they changed due to some profound disruption. They became unfocused and amorphous, and Mages could choose what that energy would become if they wished. Mosk thought that if he had a choice, he’d choose death, or hatred, or something that would end his life sooner.

When he reached the top of the crow’s nest, the rain had lessened to the point where it was only wisps of droplets floating around him, alighting on his hair and eyelashes, clinging to the waxed wood around him. He sagged on the small bench, leaned back, and then got annoyed that his only view was the cup of the crow’s nest itself.

He forced himself to stand, leaned heavily against the barrier. The rocking of the ship was more noticeable here, Mosk liked it. He closed his eyes and swayed, wishing he was only a branch. Davix had said he was like moss. So even if Davix didn’t know who he was, he suspected something, or maybe his broken, ghostly mind fed him threads of information that didn’t give him clear answers.

Mosk didn’t want to see him again, but he knew he would. He knew his stupid brain would make more dreams to take him to the person who’d taken his heartsong. Mosk lowered his forehead to the wood, and then lifted his head and carefully eased onto the cup of the crow’s nest itself, lowering his legs dangerously on the other side, looking down at the drop.

_Maybe if I fall, I won’t have to think for a while._

The rain stopped, but Mosk’s eyes were still burning. He’d craved getting back his sense of balance. Dreamed of being able to climb to the high places again, to perch dangerously on branches that would barely hold him. Now, he just wanted to be elsewhere. He didn’t know where he was supposed to go. This journey they were on was supposed to kill him, but if it didn’t, what would he do?

Maybe find a forest, a dark one, he’d never leave it. He’d never be around fire again, or fire fae. He’d never see anyone of high status. He’d just…live in the woods.

Mosk closed his eyes and let his awareness of the ship and its movements spread. His fingers rested lightly on the railing of the crow’s nest, he forced himself to breathe slowly. The mast moved back and forth, side to side, the ship rolled in huge, slow movements, but the swell was mild and they were still anchored. It did feel a lot like being in a tree. The trunk moved minutely, the branches were more unpredictable, but it could be felt out, it was possible to exist in that movement.

He let himself go blank, though it wasn’t enough to erase the dull throb in his chest.

He had no idea how much time passed when a raven cawed around him, then flew up to stand beside him on the crow’s nest, facing the same direction. Mosk looked down at the Raven Prince, and the Raven Prince tilted his head and looked up at Mosk.

‘You’re not like what I expected you to be,’ Mosk said.

The Raven Prince shifted to his human form swiftly, sitting with his legs swinging back and forth, facing outwards.

‘Did you see the King?’ Mosk said.

The Raven Prince looked at him sidelong, but said nothing. A smile played around the corners of his mouth. Mosk shrugged, faced forwards again. He didn’t care if the Raven Prince spoke to him or not. Occasionally, alongside the sound of the wind, Mosk heard the thumps of the Raven Prince knocking his booted heels back into the crow’s nest.

‘Deep in the Aur forest,’ the Raven Prince said, ‘grew a kind of mistletoe that could only be discovered by those with a rare heart.’

‘Golden mistletoe,’ Mosk said.

‘Ah, you know it?’

‘Yeah. The others couldn’t always find it.’

‘But you could?’

‘It’s easy,’ Mosk said. ‘I don’t know why they had such problems with it. It was always right where you expected it to be.’ 

‘Yes,’ the Raven Prince laughed. ‘That was the trick of it. Did it move?’

‘It just never lived very long,’ Mosk said, surprised that the Raven Prince didn’t know.

‘Can you grow some for me?’

Mosk’s fingers scraped on the rim of the crow’s nest. The Raven Prince stared ahead, a smile on his face.

‘I can’t grow things,’ Mosk said.

‘I know you can,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘I’ll keep it quiet, but I’ll need a favour. If you visit the place I’ve declared as my own so freely, expect that I’ll ask for something in turn.’

‘I’ve never grown it before.’

‘You are Mosk Manytrees,’ the Raven Prince said, using Mosk’s name like it meant something. ‘Can’t you grow a small mistletoe? Look, if you grew it on the inside of the crow’s nest, no one would see.’

‘What are you going to do with it?’

The Raven Prince held up his still-bandaged index finger, now grown back. Mosk stared at it, and then realised that the Raven Prince had given him something valuable. Mages never revealed what materials made their Mage staffs. Of course, sometimes it was possible to guess the wood, but the Mages themselves never stated exactly what it was. Mosk had never heard of a Mage using mistletoe, either. Golden mistletoe was powerful, rare, hidden.

But it wasn’t…the rarest or most powerful.

‘You don’t want something like Immortalis?’ Mosk said.

‘You can grow that too?’ the Raven Prince said lightly. Then he laughed, a broad sound. ‘No, I don’t want the Tree of Life. It suits me not at all.  A parasite that hides itself from the world, however, that gleams golden when you finally see it for what it is? Now that… That is what I want.’

‘I don’t…know what to do,’ Mosk said, hesitating.

‘Why, don’t you just place your hands upon an anchor point and think of the plant you wish to grow? Is it so hard? I don’t need to concentrate on flying.’

Mosk frowned, then turned so that he was straddling the cup of the crow’s nest, thighs gripping both sides. He placed a hand on the inside of the crow’s nest and thought of the moss on the shell in his room, the little nub he’d drawn forth from the boat. He didn’t want to waken the dead wood, he wanted to grow something entirely new.

He pursed his lips, thought of golden mistletoe, with its metallic, gleaming leaves, its graceful soft branches, its berries that were rare and tasted sweet and mild. Beneath his fingers a plant began to shape itself there against the crow’s nest, but Mosk refused to look at it, thinking instead of how they only offered three or six or nine berries per fruiting, and then died within the hour. It grew spontaneously, it couldn’t be grown from seed, a plant shrouded in mystery.

Mosk had never thought much of it, but he’d liked that he could find it when most his family couldn’t.

‘Stop,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘You’ll run through the entire life cycle of the plant. We can’t have that.’

Beneath Mosk’s fingers, a whole golden mistletoe gleamed. Mosk stared at it, then shook his head.

‘It can’t be as good as the real thing,’ Mosk said. ‘You shouldn’t make a staff out of it.’

‘It is the real thing,’ the Raven Prince said, running his elegant fingers along the leaves and smiling to himself. ‘I’ve always liked Aur dryads. Your Mamatree, she was a marvel of an ally. Quercus on the other hand, what a boorish man.’

‘He wasn’t an Aur dryad.’

‘Yes, the Unseelie are better at these things,’ the Raven Prince said, pinching up one of the leaves and crushing it in his palm, then smelling it through the gap he left in his fist. After a moment, he opened his palm and a golden butterfly flew away, taken up by the winds. ‘It’s only an illusion. That’s simple magic.’

‘Is it?’ Mosk said, staring at the butterfly. ‘But you don’t have the leaf anymore.’

‘Transmogrification then,’ the Raven Prince said, laughing. ‘Golden alchemy. Also simple magic.’

‘Does the staff really make you so much more powerful? Because you seem pretty powerful to me already.’

‘Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t,’ the Raven Prince said.

With that, he turned into a raven once more. He extended one scaled claw and pawed at the golden mistletoe, then perched on the crow’s next and preened his feathers, extending one of his wings in a stretch.

‘I don’t get you at all,’ Mosk said, swinging his other leg over so that he could stand within the crow’s nest and lean forwards, arms folded on the crow’s nest, the wood pressing into his stomach. The mistletoe shone beside him. ‘I don’t really get any of this though. I’m the most clueless person on the ship.’

The Raven Prince’s black, beady eye gleamed at him.

‘Eran’s mad at me,’ Mosk said, staring forwards. The sky was beginning to lighten. It was dawn. Mosk didn’t know what he’d do if Eran pushed him away. _Really_ pushed him away. ‘But I thought you’d be scarier. I mean you are pretty scary. I guess. My Mamatree used to talk about you, she said that you were wise and playful and childish. She said you needed a mother.’

The Raven Prince was silent, but Mosk felt like he was listening.

‘Gwyn is a good King,’ Mosk said. ‘He was good when he was King of the Seelie, and he’s good now. He’s not what…people think monarchs should be, but, you should give him a chance. But you probably think you already are. Because I can tell you could like, kill him if you wanted to. Or whatever, make him regret his entire life.’

Mosk yawned, rubbed at his face. His hair was drying stiff, water squelched between his toes. He pressed his forehead to the wood and felt the way his breath gusted back at him. The clouds overhead were breaking apart. The weather changed so quickly on the Mantissa.

The rope at his wrist felt secure. He wondered if he should untie it. Surely…it wasn’t something he deserved, when Eran was angry at him.

‘I don’t want to be a person again,’ Mosk said, staring down, seeing the golden mistletoe in the corner of his eye. ‘I don’t want a heartsong. I don’t want to have magic. I don’t want to grow things. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want him to hate me. But he should. He should. It’s what he should’ve done from the beginning.’

After a few minutes Mosk straightened and walked towards the hole in the nest where the mast was attached.

‘I shouldn’t just talk to you like this, should I?’ Mosk said, turning back to look at the Raven Prince, who was facing him now, feathers ruffling in the wind. It couldn’t be comfortable. ‘I shouldn’t talk to an ex-King like this even when he’s a raven. I’m sorry. I got so used to talking to animals in the forest. Maybe I was talking to shifters a lot and I just didn’t know. Gods, that’s embarrassing. I’m _still_ doing it.’

He rolled his eyes at himself, but as he began to climb down the mast again, he heard the Raven Prince cawing laughter at him, and it didn’t sound cruel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://not-poignant.tumblr.com/)
> 
> In our next chapter, 'Veils': 
> 
> ‘No need to be sorry,’ Ash said. 
> 
> ‘Should I get someone?’ 
> 
> ‘What’re they gonna do?’ Ash said, pinning Eran with a feral, hazel gaze that sparked brighter than normal. Eran had never felt afraid around Ash before. Not once. Of all of the members of Gwyn’s Court who sat on their thrones, Ash was positively benign. Of course he hunted humans, but he was a runt waterhorse, he’d gone out of his way to make their journey better, he was compassionate and sympathetic. 
> 
> The way Ash looked at him then, Eran’s breath deserted him. 
> 
> ‘What’re they gonna do, Eran?’ Ash said, stepping forwards, a prickling, heavy, hot energy swamping Eran until he wanted to step backwards.


	10. Veils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading / commenting / kudosing! It's appreciated. :D

_Eran_

*

The next morning, Eran noticed that Mosk’s wrist was bare.

Mosk was leaning against the railing, looking out at the sea, and both of his wrists were bare. Eran knew, logically, that Mosk had likely removed the rope because Eran had sent him away, but he couldn’t help but feel the rejection of the act. It stung. Of the two of them, Mosk had no reason to be angry, and he should be the one trying to make things better between them. Eran didn’t have the energy to be the nice one all the time.

Not when Mosk kept taking advantage of him.

After all, Eran had asked Augus for advice, even Julvia, he’d trusted his instincts, he’d tried to sensitively find out what was wrong. He’d seen the aftermath of Mosk’s nightmares and _known_ it was more than just his normal nightmares. All along, Mosk was just going to defensively lie to him about it.

Eran was Seelie, the constant lies cut into him. He could ignore some of them, forgive them, understand that Mosk was Unseelie and lies didn’t hurt them in quite the same way, but he’d reached the end of his tolerance.

He’d poured himself into trying to be there for Mosk. Exhausted himself the night before, holding back to make sure Mosk enjoyed himself, and in the end…

Did it even matter?

He’d never experienced something like that with someone else, something that…important, and Mosk was lying to him even then.

Eran walked past him and said nothing, he didn’t look back to see if Mosk even noticed him. He probably hadn’t. Mosk was up early, maybe he’d already gone to see the Raven Prince. He didn’t even seem to be upset. The things that did upset him – visiting Davix in his dreams – he didn’t even talk about.

Mosk hadn’t told anyone, and all Eran could think was that Davix could have used him. Used him to sabotage them all. Used him to bring the ice back. Used him to harm these new people that Eran cared about. All Mosk saw was his own selfishness. He didn’t care for the greater picture, he didn’t care if they all died, and Eran never heard him speak about his own family, maybe he didn’t care much about them either.

_No, you know he does. You know he does. You’re being irrational._

Eran blew out a cloud of smoke, walked through it, and ended up on the afterdeck. There, Ash stood by the doorway of the large cabin, a bottle of some red-gold liquor in his hand and a grimace on his face. Eran hesitated, but Ash turned and lifted his other hand in greeting. So Eran walked over.

‘You’re drinking?’ Eran said.

‘Don’t judge, man,’ Ash said, his voice rougher, harder than normal.

Eran realised he’d hardly seen Ash at all. There’d been the night the Raven Prince had returned, when Ash had danced and sang. There’d been the times when Ash had been a guard to the Raven Prince, mostly silent and still. But he didn’t seem as bright or cheerful as normal, as his reputation suggested.

‘Sorry,’ Eran said.

Ash took two direct swigs from the bottle and then lifted his hand to run it through the shell wind-chimes above them. They clinked and rattled from the treatment, and Ash did it twice more, looking down at the bottle, nostrils flaring.

‘No need to be sorry,’ Ash said.

‘Should I get someone?’

‘What’re they gonna do?’ Ash said, pinning Eran with a feral, hazel gaze that sparked brighter than normal. Eran had never felt afraid around Ash before. Not once. Of all of the members of Gwyn’s Court who sat on their thrones, Ash was positively benign. Of course he hunted humans, but he was a runt waterhorse, he’d gone out of his way to make their journey better, he was compassionate and sympathetic.

The way Ash looked at him then, Eran’s breath deserted him.

‘What’re they gonna do, Eran?’ Ash said, stepping forwards, a prickling, heavy, hot energy swamping Eran until he wanted to step backwards.

‘Maybe you need more…waterweed?’

‘Do I?’ Ash said. ‘Is that it? You fucking know that’s not it.’

Eran felt a flash of anger. He’d wanted to escape people with bad attitudes and he’d walked right into it again.

‘Back off,’ Eran said, firing up. ‘I can’t get you what you need, and I hate that I can’t, but you drinking first thing in the morning can’t be helping. You can’t get me what I need either, Ash. You got to keep your brother, in all of this.’

Ash’s scowl increased in intensity, then he took a quick, sharp breath and stepped backwards.

‘Ah, shit,’ he said, clearing his throat, ruffling his wet hair. ‘Fucking hell. I’m sorry. The bloodlust is driving me nuts. I don’t know how Augus deals with it, but he says he doesn’t get it at all. I’m starting to think I should just ask them to knock me out.’

Eran realised the difference in energy he’d felt, the dread and apprehension that still spread through him, it was Ash’s dra’ocht? No. Ash wanted to _hunt_. Eran would have said only ten minutes ago that Ash wasn’t dangerous, but now he stood by the doorway of the cabin and had no idea how to quantify the fae before him. It had been hard, at first, to imagine Ash mutinying against the Unseelie King, but if that was the viciousness behind it…

He could imagine it.

‘Those fae we saw,’ Ash said, his voice low. ‘The ones in a frenzy, being killed by other fae, I just keep thinking it’s gonna happen to me.’

‘You’re Inner Court status,’ Eran said patiently. ‘Maybe you could ask Augus for help?’

‘Augus learned what he learned in a situation none of us are in right now, yeah?’ Ash said, closing his eyes and then rubbing at his face vigorously as though he was trying to wake himself or sober up. ‘I’m not imprisoned in the underworlds, I can’t scream myself out and then see what’s left after. If I lose my shit here… God. I’m sorry, Eran. If you see me like that again, just call me out on it, or if you’re scared, get Gwyn. He can knock me out.’

‘I’m sorry too,’ Eran said, daring to reach out, clasping Ash’s arm and noticing his look of shock, followed by gratitude. ‘I understand this isn’t easy for you, I caught you at a difficult time.’

‘We’re all going through difficult times,’ Ash said, and though he smiled, Eran couldn’t help but notice the darkness under his eyes. Augus had said that it had hit Ash hard, when it had hit. Eran had only assumed it made him sleepier.

‘That doesn’t mean you can’t talk about it.’

‘Usually I’m saying that to other people,’ Ash said, leaning against the doorway and winking at Eran, before staring out to sea. ‘I’m losing my heartsong, and it’s not helping. I don’t even know what it is, and Augus still won’t tell me, because he wants it to stay and he’s always said I’ll lose it if I know what it is. But I know it’s going. It corrupted a while back, and it’s been on shaky ground ever since, y’know? I think it makes it harder. Augus’ heartsong is stable, amazingly, but he works on his.’

‘What’s Augus’ heartsong?’ Eran asked. Some people didn’t talk about their heartsongs, others did. He couldn’t help but be curious.

‘Balance,’ Ash said. ‘He needs equilibrium. I think being on the ship has been good for him. He’s settled a bit, less worried about Gwyn. I mean he hates it here, but he suits like, laying about all day and scowling at things like a predator. Anyway.’ Ash swung away from the doorway and flashed a bright grin. ‘I’m going to see if anyone is down to fuck. Sorry again!’

Ash walked off, and Eran stood there by the doorway. Eventually he reached up and ran his fingers through the wind-chimes, like Ash did. He wondered if his life would ever feel easy again.

*

After a day spent helping out, assisting with odd jobs around the ship, Eran walked along the wraparound decking in the dark and tried to ground himself. He called fire to his body, focused on warmth, murmured small chants to Kabiri. They all helped somewhat, but his thoughts kept tripping over Mosk. They’d shared something together that Eran didn’t have a word for. Mosk would call it fucking, and someone else might call it ‘making love,’ but Eran didn’t know what it was.

Though he’d been nervous, scared that Mosk would disappear on him, there were still moments where Eran had been so present, so connected in the moment, that it had been nearly transcendent. Was this what Augus felt, in his vocation? With Gwyn? Eran had been sickened at the idea of having control over someone else, but now he saw what it could yield.

But what now? Maybe he could find it with someone else. Maybe Mosk would come and apologise to him, actually attempt to be genuine with him. But Eran was certain that he was just a diversion to Mosk, who would continue to lie to him, deceive him, talk to the Raven Prince, leave in the mornings to be with other fae. Aside from bringing him the fire blankets, Mosk almost never came to see him. Eran was always the one to initiate contact, always the pursuer, always watching as Mosk walked away from him.

_You sent him away._

But now, Mosk wasn’t wearing the rope on his wrist anymore.

_If he’s grown past needing it, that’s a good thing for him._

But it left Eran feeling empty.

He headed towards the bow under the cover of a quiet, clear night, exhaling slowly, using his knowledge of fire and his innate fire magic to make smoke shapes that lasted only a few seconds before being blown away. A baby olcana mouflon, chubby and round. The glyph of love that his mother had painted above the cooking fire, ensuring that every meal was filled with it. The wicked ‘V’ of the kratel gazelle’s spiralling horns.

He passed a stack of crates and boxes, some carefully looped ropes, then saw Julvia alone, facing the sea, wings tucked close to her back. He walked over, concerned, saw the glint of tears glimmering on her face as he stood next to her.

‘It’s not silly to miss them,’ she said, not even looking at him, not wiping the tears that were still falling. Her voice was throaty but still soft, her breath even.

‘It’s not,’ Eran said.

‘I should be able to introduce her to Mammu,’ Julvia said, extending one of her wings and wrapping it easily around Eran. It was warm, smelled only a little of swan now and more of salt water. ‘I want my sisters to meet her.’

Eran shuffled closer until their arms were touching, and stared out at the sea. He could feel the way she shook, but couldn’t properly put an arm around her without disturbing her wings. She cried silently, gracefully, though her pale cheeks had reddened even in the darkness around them.

‘It’s so special, and I can’t share it with them,’ Julvia said. ‘It hurts like a wound. I cry nearly every night.’

‘You do?’  

‘Don’t you?’ Julvia said, looking at him, black eyes wider than before. ‘We are so wounded.’

Eran swallowed roughly.

‘Didn’t you go to them for advice?’ she said, sounding plaintive. ‘Didn’t you ask them for help when you were in trouble? And now, of course, we still have people we can ask for help, but it’s not the same. Sometimes you just want that _one person,_ and for me it is Mammu, but I want the rest as well. I bleed for them, all the time. They can’t even see it. They wouldn’t even want it. I can’t help myself.’

Julvia leaned into him, wrapping her wing around him more tightly.

‘Don’t you bleed for them?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ Eran whispered. ‘I can’t make my fires anymore. Not properly.’

‘Because of the ship?’

‘Because…it hurts,’ Eran said, blinking rapidly. ‘That’s all. It doesn’t feel right. At first I thought I’d keep doing it as a way to remember them. But as time goes on, even that hurts too much. It’s like I’m doing it for no one at all. They’re all gone.’

‘You’ve lost so much more than your family,’ Julvia said. She sniffed lightly.

They stood there, Julvia leaning heavily against him, Eran supporting her weight and leaning back. Julvia continued to weep quietly, occasionally reaching up to scratch at her chin. She turned her face against his shoulder and Eran dared to reach up and stroke her hair, and she laughed gently, but didn’t reprimand him for it. So he did it again before stopping.

Heaviness had made him an anchor, and like the ship that didn’t sail, he felt as though he’d stopped. Julvia’s shared sadness was contagious. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing through the soreness in his chest.

‘I wish you would do the rituals,’ Julvia said eventually. ‘It’s hard to carry them like this, but we have to, don’t we? Tell me something about them. Any of them.’

Eran took a breath and sighed it out. ‘My brother Vhadi and I were never that close,’ he said. ‘But sometimes Vhadi would decide to cook tahdig because he never thought mother made it enough.’

‘How do you say ‘mother,’ where you come from?’ Julvia asked.

Eran had been avoiding even thinking of the term.

‘Euma,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘Eulo for father. Alo for brother, ala for sister. Together we make a eumlek. A family.’

His words broke into nothing and he cleared his throat twice.

‘What’s tahdig?’ Julvia asked, her voice as gentle as before.

‘It’s…well, it’s this layer of rice at the bottom of a pot, that’s…golden and overcooked but _so_ good. By the gods and by Kabiri, it’s the best. And to make it properly – it’s not just burnt rice! – there are family secrets. You need very good saffron. My euma made it a lot, a part of her advieh polo, but Vhadi just wanted it all the time, and he’d get me to help him? We’d put aside our differences and make it, and she’d be so happy, and she always said ours was the best. Maybe she said that so we’d make more.’

‘Maybe it really was the best.’

Eran nodded, and abruptly realised he’d never have it again. Not the tahdig made by his euma and not the tahdig he made with Vhadi. He felt stupid for not thinking of it sooner. Could he even recall the taste properly? Would his imagination ever come as close to the reality? He felt the bright shaft of it land in his gut, making one of his knees buckle. Julvia grasped his arm and this close he could hear the shaking of her breathing. She was still crying. She sounded calm, but her grief had wound around him, teasing his own free.

‘Is it always going to be like this?’ Eran said, feeling like a child.

_Will I think of something I’ve missed, need them so badly that my organs feel like they don’t fit inside of me? My fire feels like something that was only made to burn me through._

‘My Mammu would say no?’ Julvia said, voice light and thready. ‘But she’s not here to say it, so for now, I think it will always be like this. We are orphans, Eran.’

Eran raised the arm that Julvia wasn’t holding and covered his face with his hand, taking several deep breaths. It didn’t help. His arm dropped and he stood next to Julvia, the grief feeling like poison inside him. If it was anything else, he’d say he was sick and he’d see a healer. But this was an injury they couldn’t heal.

They stood without speaking, their occasional trembling breaths talking for them. The waves slapped against the sides of the ship, the stars twinkled above them, and somewhere behind them, the Raven Prince perched silently on the crow’s nest as a giant raven, watching over them all.

Eran thought Mosk should be there with them, except that Eran didn’t know what Mosk’s grief even looked like. He hardly ever spoke about his family, and almost always had to be coaxed into doing it. His family had been awful to him, even if they were pacifists, even if they were kind to others. Eran wanted to talk to him, wanted him close, but even that hurt to think about. In the end, it was better Mosk wasn’t there.

His tears burned away as vapour, the salt crusting quickly. He called so much heat to his body that Julvia leaned closer to him, humming softly to herself. The sound quickly turned into a lullaby that concealed some tragic story, from the way the notes rose and fell. She hummed sweetly, Eran could feel the familiarity of it, knew that it was a song her mother must have sung to her.

He breathed out wisps of smoke and felt the great beast inside of him that wanted to rage and burn until it could somehow peel back the charcoal crust of the world and make his family reappear by force alone. His grief looked still and gentle – he knew it did – but inside him, it was violence. Slivers of shame alongside it, too, that he missed his mother more than his father, that he thought of Ada and Adalia more than Vhadi, that his grief was hierarchical and unequal. Did that make him a bad person?

He closed his eyes to the night and the stars and hung onto the notes of Julvia’s lullaby, the memory of her mother wrapped around them in song.

*

Two days later, it was a busy afternoon and Eran was covered in sweat as he helped roll and protect fishing nets, learning how to mend them under the watchful eye of a hooper known as Airy Joe. The hooper was scruffy with facial hair and looked up at the sky every few seconds, almost like a nervous tic.

‘Storms,’ he muttered. ‘Storms are in the air.’

‘Do you like them?’

‘Aye, somewhat.’

‘Are they close by?’

‘Not especially,’ Airy Joe said, reaching out quickly to correct Eran’s hands where he was holding two pieces of rope to be mended with stitching twine. ‘But their lead-winds bring a merchant vessel, so we may have a market tonight.’

Eran felt a quickening of excitement inside of him. ‘A market?’

Airy Joe must have grinned, by the way his salt and pepper facial hair moved, the way his murky blue eyes twinkled. ‘Ye’ll be a boy of the markets then? You like all that hustle and bustle?’

‘How does it work?’ Eran said, looking around.

‘There are the great floating markets of the seas, but this is not that. A merchant vessel will either set up on their own decking, or ask permission to board and set up here. The larger ones will want to set up on both! What’ve you got to barter then?’

‘Nothing much,’ Eran said. Though it wasn’t true. He’d somehow kept hold of the clipaks that Amhar had given him. ‘I guess it depends on what they have?’

‘Oh, aye!’ Airy Joe said, staring up at the sky. ‘Ah, me. When I’m in the sea I want to be in the air and when I’m in the air I want to be in the sea, and never will I find the place I fit best. But the Mantissa comes close, friend. She comes close.’

Airy Joe reached out and petted Eran’s hand, the back of his forearm thick with grey hairs. He was one of the oldest looking fae Eran had ever seen, and he wanted to know if it was something particular to whatever kind of fae he was, or if it was a choice.

When the mending was finished, Eran reluctantly decided to look for Mosk. They had to talk, and Mosk was never going to approach him first, not after Eran had been the one to send him away in the first place.

*

Mosk wasn’t on top of the crow’s nest. Eran looked around, but saw nothing except a pile of dead plant matter, and the Raven Prince himself in true-form, who didn’t even face him, but faced the wind and the coming merchant vessel. Eran didn’t talk to him, found him both intimidating and rude, and knew the Raven Prince didn’t want much to do with him.

When Eran looked belowdeck, Mosk wasn’t in his room either.

Eran went back to his room to get some clipaks in case there was going to be a market, placing them in the pocket of his black pants. He then got distracted by the bench in front of the panel of glass that hid the fish in the sea. Eran had been so worried for Mosk when the Raven Prince had forced him to sleep, when the Raven Prince had then explained to Gwyn with surprising patience what he intended on doing and how he needed Gwyn to help him. Through all of it, Mosk had been unconscious until he’d woken up at the end, afraid of something that Eran could have helped him with earlier.

If Mosk had just…trusted him.

‘That’s never going to happen,’ Eran said to himself.

As he left his room, he felt a strange pressure in the air around him. A rising, hideous feeling, like his phobia of the sea was returning full force and he was going to be _crushed._ His skin pulled tight, he was sinking, he was being pushed further down into the water.

He bolted automatically, no longer feeling safe in his room. He fled all the way up to the deck, where he stumbled to a halt as he saw many of Ondine’s crew standing side by side in front of the railing, facing outwards. Moving their hands, they worked their strange magic together, and Eran shuddered when he realised they _were_ sinking the ship.

He ran until he reached Gwyn, some length down the Mantissa, and he was facing the merchant vessel alongside them, with its colourful sails, looking so small even with several hundred people facing them on the deck. Eran realised just how outlandishly large the Mantissa was.

‘What’s happening?’ Eran gasped.

‘Hm?’ Gwyn said. ‘Oh! They’re just lowering the Mantissa by adding water as ballast, so that they can lay bridges between them and the slope not be so uncomfortable. It’s fine, Eran. They have complete control of what they’re doing.’

‘I thought we were sinking.’

‘We are, after a fashion,’ Gwyn said, smiling. ‘It’s just a very controlled sink, and we’ll stay afloat.’

‘Do you like markets?’ Eran said. Anything to distract himself from the sound of the sea getting closer.

‘They’re a good way to gain information,’ Gwyn said. ‘I think…I should like to buy Augus something, too.’

‘What does he like?’

‘He’s _very_ particular,’ Gwyn said, looking at Eran. ‘But I’ve noticed that if he doesn’t like something, eventually it finds its way into my cabin, so that he still sees it sometimes. Perhaps I should just buy something I like.’

Eran let out a breath of laughter, and Gwyn’s smile was wry. It gave Eran a kind of hope, though, that Gwyn was talking about whatever cabin it was he had, that he imagined Augus putting a gift in there. It meant he saw a kind of future for them all, didn’t it?

‘He likes books on herbs and plants,’ Gwyn said softly. ‘Excuse me.’

Gwyn walked off abruptly, towards a fae beckoning him in the distance. Eran looked around instinctively for Mosk, but couldn’t find him. He continued to search, wanting to stay abreast of the changes around him, scared to go back down to his room until he could be sure the Mantissa wasn’t really going to disappear into the ocean.

*

Later, Eran sat on the flat roof of one of the cabins, looking down at the quick, organised way everything was set up. Below him, a dance floor had been laid down over the decking, the shiny black wood polished to gleaming. He looked up in surprise as Julvia joined him, her wings flared to catch the gentle breeze, the sky glowing lilac and violet behind her.

‘Ondine says the entertainment will be on the Mantissa,’ Julvia said, kneeling beside him. ‘The market is on the other ship. Will you come with me? I want to buy Ondine something.’

‘Have you seen Mosk?’

‘No,’ Julvia said, frowning. ‘You don’t know where he is?’

‘We…I think we had a fight. Or- Actually, I don’t know. It’s hard to tell.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Julvia said. ‘Do you want to come to the market with me? They’ve strung up the bridge. It’s very safe, but it is over open water. Do you want to try?’

Eran stood and walked to the other side of the cabin’s roof and saw the gently swaying bridge over the ocean, the lights along it already winking and twinkling. Fae walked across it easily, but all Eran could see were the waves beneath it.

‘It’s not even like I’d drown,’ Eran said. ‘No one would let me. And I _can_ swim. My parents made sure I could swim. So I could probably save myself if something happened. And nothing is going to happen. But I see the sea, it’s so hard.’

Julvia placed a hand between Eran’s shoulders. ‘Will you come with me?’

‘I’ll try,’ Eran said.

‘And then we can come back?’ Julvia said. ‘Maybe we can dance. Haven’t you missed dancing? Singing?’

Eran wasn’t in the mood for either, but Julvia looked at him in open entreaty. It was too easy to remember how she broke softly against him only two days before. Maybe she needed the company too.

‘We’ll see,’ Eran said, reaching out and taking her hand. ‘Let’s try the market first.’

Julvia beamed. ‘You seem like just the person to know what sort of gift to get someone, let’s go.’

*

The markets were busy, stalls lining the narrow wraparound decks, shining lights and shimmering flags indicating goods and services everywhere. The smells of food cooking and frying, smoke weaving into the air, the shouting of voices as merchants hawked their wares. Eran saw a surprising number of fae with bird’s wings, and Julvia pointed at a fae with giant eagle’s wings and marvelled.

‘Eagles are good merchants, apparently. They travel all over the world. But pelicans are the very best.’

‘I didn’t know,’ Eran said. ‘In the desert, afrit are known for their ability to barter and trade when they’re not warring, though not all of them war! Sounhaqh was the very best market though. Everyone wanted to buy from the peri, because they are so beautiful, but that meant they always rorted everyone. It was amazing watching them work.’

‘Your eyes are all aglow.’

‘Are they?’ Eran said, smiling. The stalls, the smells of the market, it was all so different from his homeland, but all he could see in the moment were the similarities. He wanted to stare at every stall. He wanted to hold items in his hand and gaze at them critically, as though they weren’t good enough, a game to put the merchant on the back foot before the bartering even started, as the merchant stared in disdain to try and do the same. He couldn’t stop the excitement that rose inside him, even as he wished he could show these wonders to his family. ‘I like markets.’

The swaying bridge had been hard to navigate, but Julvia held his hand fiercely and told him to look ahead and never look down, and Eran had made it over without stopping or panicking or running back. Now that he was here, he was surprised at how safe he felt. Across the water came the sounds of musicians tuning their instruments on the Mantissa.

The sirens were singing in the distance, of good food and feasts, of the wonders of special treasures found in rare stalls. Eran never understood the words, but he could always interpret the feelings their songs roused.

‘Oh, look!’ Eran said, pointing to a stall of different leathers he’d never seen before.

As the night progressed, Eran saw stalls that sold rare shells. He learned that sea fae loved bright things, glittering things, pearlescent things. They enjoyed fire and warmth, and he was surprised at how many items had fire motifs carved into them.

‘To bring warmth into the soul,’ a young fae said, grinning up at Eran’s eyes. ‘Not that _you_ need it, fire friend! But it is cold down there, and we may grow used to it, but some of us like the warmth. What better way to show it, than to carve it? There, do you like my skill? I am one of the very best!’

Eran didn’t think he was, but he liked the fellow well enough, and they talked for ten minutes before moving on. Julvia looked over several small vases, but Eran subtly shook his head, thinking that they could do better.

The night wore on and Eran bought several skewers of barbecued fish, sharing them with Julvia, who dug in with gusto. At one point, a small group of sea trows ran past them, the fins on their head flared in excitement. A few seconds later a merchant thundered past, shouting something about his silver.

‘Ah,’ Eran said. ‘Whoops?’

‘Even the Seelie ones do it,’ Julvia said, laughing.

‘Should we do something?’

‘No,’ Julvia said, bumping into him gently. Then she stopped before a stall of cloth and embroidery, cooing at a tapestry of fish. Eran couldn’t blame her, it was exquisite, but she was never going to be able to barter well for it now.

In the end, she purchased a wrap made of a shining gossamer, embroidered with tiny bits of shell so small that they no longer looked like individual beads, but like part of the soft fabric itself. When spread out to its full length, a naked woman swam alongside dolphins. When crumpled up, the colours blended and still looked beautiful. Eran thought the merchant was right to charge as much as she had, it was such good work.

‘I do it too,’ Julvia said. ‘I embroider. I know skill and talent when I see it. Oh, Mammu would be so jealous if she knew I was here. I hope Ondine likes it. Do you think she’ll like it?’

‘I’m sure she will.’

‘I want to see her wear it,’ Julvia said, and then grinned wickedly. ‘That and nothing else. It’s so sheer. She would! Oh, I hope she likes it.’

Eran found himself laughing in spite of himself, as they rounded the stern of the ship where the more valued stalls were. Here were the currency changers, apparently a lot of sea fae didn’t trade in clipaks, but in shells and sometimes even small sheafs of rare fish leathers.

There, he found a stall where a single merchant sat calmly in front of a table of the most exquisite hardstone carvings, engraved gems and intaglio that Eran had ever seen. He masked his expression quickly, wandering over and picking up one of the small pieces, realising it wasn’t stone at all, but coral. One red piece had a tiny domestic scene carved into it in such detail that Eran stared for a long time. That must be how sea fae lived beneath the ocean. A home with fish swimming inside of it, and two fae wrapped around each other, long fish tails flowing out behind them.

‘You won’t find any better,’ the merchant said with quiet sureness. ‘But you’re not from here, are you? You’re the one travelling with that Unseelie land King.’

‘Yes,’ Eran said, placing the piece of red coral back down again as he looked over at the others. There were no prices listed, and Eran would have to enquire after each of them. He had no idea what a good price would be. This sort of sculpture and artwork was hard to find even in Sounhaqh. Carvings and sculptures were common, but not like this.

Eran thought of the piece of bone Mosk carried with him for so long, and instantly knew that even if they were at odds with each other, he had to get something to replace what he’d left behind at Oengus’ tower.

‘Are you looking for something in particular?’ the merchant said, as Julvia walked past him to a stall of inks made from the secretions and blood of molluscs, cephalopods and other sea creatures.

‘Do you have anything…with plants?’ Eran said awkwardly. His heart quickened in his chest as the music rose and fell around them, brought closer by the occasional breeze.

‘Ah,’ the merchant said. ‘Maybe. A moment.’

The merchant leaned behind the desk and fetched a carved container made of wood. It gleamed beautifully, itself a piece of art that had been untouched by the salt of the sea. Eran wondered if it was the same preserving magic that certain sea fae seemed to possess. The merchant opened up the box and brought out some bundles of fabric, opening each with careful, long fingers.

Eran didn’t know what kind of fae he was, didn’t know if it was rude to ask. His hands terminated in skin that looked like it belonged to a shark or dolphin. But his nails were black, his eyes the colour of a pale spring sun.

Finally, the merchant held three small carved intaglio gems in his hands. They had flat bases, could have been set in jewellery, and one was cream, one a dull green, and the other shone like…

‘Opal?’ Eran said, picking it up.

‘It is very difficult to carve well,’ the merchant said. ‘So the opal itself is not cheap, but the design is less refined than many of the others.’

Upon it was a single leaf, maybe an oak, and when Eran tilted it, the leaf itself refracted a brilliant blue-green while the rest of the opal stayed dull. Eran looked at the others. A small tree on the cream one, what might have been a rose on the green one. He knew he didn’t have enough clipaks for any of them.

‘Well,’ Eran said, smiling a little. ‘Maybe next time.’

The merchant looked at him for a while, and then looked at the opal intaglio resting in Eran’s hand.

‘Can you make Everfire?’

‘Yes,’ Eran said. Of course he could. But there were so many fire fae refugees now that could make it, it had lost its value. Eran remembered that from his experiences on the land.

_Except…how many fire fae are coming to the sea?_

‘Yes, I can,’ Eran said, more confident than before.

‘If I give you a stone, can you turn that into Everfire? Or must you choose the stone yourself?’

‘If I get to choose the stone myself,’ Eran said, ‘then it would be worth one of these.’ He pointed to the cream and green stones. ‘But if you choose the stone, then I will take this one.’

He held up the opal with its single leaf, and the merchant pursed his lips and looked uncertain. ‘I don’t like bartering. I know you want it. Frankly, I think it’s worth two or three Everfire stones, but I have never traded with a fire fae before and land artefacts do not sell that often.’

The merchant looked under his stall again and brought out another wooden container, this one far smaller. He brought out a perfectly round piece of granite, cradling it carefully in his hands. ‘Everfire is warm even in the water, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Eran said, taking the granite from him with equal care after setting the opal intaglio back down. ‘I can make it so that it won’t boil the water around it?’

‘You can set the temperature?’ the merchant said, eyes widening. ‘You are that good?’

‘I am ambaros,’ Eran said, feeling something ancient and true settle inside him as he held the granite. The stone carried a kind of magic, but Eran had his own. Being asked about his fire sparked something deep inside of him. ‘I am the best.’

‘I see,’ the merchant said. ‘I see. Can you set Everfire to that stone?’

‘It already carries magic, but I can,’ Eran said. ‘Here, give me your hand and tell me how hot you want the stone to be, from what you feel from my hand.’

The merchant carefully offered his hand, and Eran took it, holding the stone in the palm of his other hand. It didn’t take long for the merchant to find the temperature he wanted, and Eran drew his hand away and crouched against the decking of the ship and cupped the stone close to his chest, under his chin, closing his eyes and drawing his fire forth.

Sending it into the stone was easy enough, his eyes beginning to burn with heat instead of tears, his fingers tingling. He heard the sounds of strings and drums in the distance, the sirens singing along, and he spoke words of smoke across the granite until it listened to him and gained its own soul of fire.

‘O, living creature,’ he spoke in the language of the ambaros, ‘eternally blessed by the giving fires of Kabiri, the lava that flows in the deepest mountains, in sea and on land, waken and live, comforted and warm forevermore. Be yourself a blessing upon the world, a warmth in the hearts of fae, a home to the lost flames of candles and hearthfires everywhere. O, Everfire, _live_. Live for me.’

The fire set deep into the stone, finding its heart and kindling to life. It became warm, and it would never be cold again. When Eran handed it back, the merchant took it gingerly, staring in amazement. Eran stood, feeling stronger, not weaker, for what he’d just done. Julvia was standing beside him, she must have come while he was setting the fire into the stone.

‘You’re so warm,’ she said, sighing. ‘You’re so warm.’

‘Take it,’ the merchant said, wrapping up the opal in its cloth. ‘Take it and dare to tell the other merchants you can do this. They will give you much.’

‘Thanks,’ Eran said. ‘This is all I need for now.’

‘I could sell this for all of the works at my stall,’ the merchant said, packing away the granite orb.

Eran laughed, realising how clever the merchant was, to play at not liking bartering, to pretend that he was selling himself short for accepting the Everfire for the opal intaglio. The truth was, Eran could part with Everfire easily, and it had been so long since anyone had valued it, he’d forgotten how fae tended to respond to the marvel of it. They took it for granted where he came from.

‘A blessing of the sea upon you,’ the merchant said as Eran turned to leave.

‘And the fires of Kabiri upon you,’ Eran said.

They shared a smile, and Eran and Julvia walked away. Eran tucked the intaglio into his pocket, his hands still warm, and felt so settled within himself as he walked across the bridge back towards the Mantissa that he didn’t feel afraid at all.

*

Later still, and Eran danced with Ondine and Julvia, with many other fae that he knew only in a passing way, and many more who he’d never met at all. Some laughed like the sound of water gurgling, creeks running. Others spoke in swift, fierce languages and had webbed hands and feet. The floor beneath them was covered in salt water, many fae weeping it naturally from their hair, their hands, their feet.

The crowds hived off back to the markets, they walked around the Mantissa in obvious awe, pointing at different parts of it. Perhaps it had been anchored for so long as an inactive warship, the merchants didn’t think they would be cursed. Or maybe fae only believed in its supposed bad luck when it was witnessed during wartime.

He turned to see Julvia and Ondine tucked away in the shadows. Julvia stood over Ondine, leaning down towards her, a pale finger under an olive chin, kissing the tip of her nose before capturing her lips. The wind blew Julvia’s hair messily around them, and Ondine’s moved perfectly, tumbling in black waves down to her waist. Ondine had the wrap that Julvia had purchased for her, around her shoulders, and she clutched it in one of her hands as Julvia continued to kiss her.

Eran found himself looking for Mosk once more. He couldn’t help but be irritated. He’d barely lasted a few days of telling himself they needed the space, and instead he ached and wanted to talk to him and make it right, and he wasn’t the one who had done anything wrong. He hadn’t lied about something so important. But he couldn’t imagine the rest of this journey without Mosk talking to him ever again.

He startled when he was tapped on the shoulder, and turned to see a small fae with barnacles growing all over them, holding up some bright orange pieces of fabric. Every piece was delicate, translucent, like long scarves.

‘Ex-excuse me,’ the fae said, looking back towards a crowd of other barnacle-covered fae who were huddled by the emptier dance floor. ‘Are you…a fire fae? Your eyes…’

‘Yes,’ Eran said, smiling. ‘Greetings.’

‘And-and greetings to you!’ the fae said, thrusting up what looked like silks. ‘Do you…know how to dance in v-veils?’

Eran stared at the silks, then looked curiously past the fae to the crowd beyond. One of them held up some red and blue silks. Another held up white ones. He stared down at the orange silks and wondered what was going on.

‘Why do you have these?’ Eran said, picking up one of the silk veils and trailing it through his fingers.

‘He’ll do it!’ the tiny fae shrieked, running back to their crowd and tripping over their own feet in the process. ‘He’ll do it!’

Eran stood there, holding the silk in his hand, eyebrows raised, then walked over shaking his head.

‘I didn’t say I’d do it,’ Eran said. ‘I didn’t even say I knew how.’

‘But do you?’ said another barnacle-covered fae who was maybe older, judging by the height of them. But they still only came up to Eran’s ribs. ‘Do you dance the veils?’

‘Do you?’

‘Sometimes,’ the fae said. ‘But we cannot do it like it is done in the desert, with fire. Will you do it? We will…’ The fae fumbled around in his pocket and then brought out a handful of glowing green orbs that looked like tiny bubbles. ‘We will pay. We can do the music. Thricksten here knows how. They learned. They went to the desert where it was very hot, to learn, and they apprenticed to an important master.’

Thricksten, who looked just like the rest of them, nodded.

‘Do you…?’ Eran stared down at the silk, trailing it through his hands again. It felt like such a long time, it had been over a year. He was very good, trained by his mother, and the night had been jovial and colourful. ‘Do you have a dombak?’

Thricksten turned and gestured to a rack of instruments behind them, stepping back so Eran could see, and Eran walked over in amazement. There were string instruments he didn’t recognise, but the oud was unmistakeable. There was a tabla, a dombak, a daf with cymbals, even a chang.

‘Who did you apprentice with?’ Eran asked in amazement, his hand hovering over some wrist cuffs with bells dangling, ankle cuffs too. ‘How long?’

‘Seventy years,’ Thricksten said, smiling a little. ‘I wanted to stay seven hundred, but the desert was bad for me. I visited for a short time, I was not meant to live there.’

‘He’s going to dance!’ the young fae said, thrusting all the orange silks up at Eran and then letting them go, so that Eran had no choice but to catch them.

‘We even have the gold paste,’ Thricksten said softly. ‘But you do not have to. We do our own dances too, and we did not come expecting to force this upon you. Tanadem has never seen a desert fae like you dance before, and we thought from your eyes that you might be ambaros, and we know…they dance very well. You see my family, they have heard my stories from me, and Tanadem thought it was like a dream, realising you were here. But they can visit the desert if they want to see the dances badly enough.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Eran said, following the energy of the evening, warm from the Everfire he’d made. ‘I’ll…need somewhere to change? Do you…?’

Thricksten gestured towards the cabin behind them, which had been emptied to make room for the musicians and the dancers. ‘I can help you, if you like? I remember how to attach the veils.’

‘Who did you apprentice to?’

‘Adarhoshang.’

‘Oh. Really?’ Eran said, smiling in spite of himself. But then he thought that Adarhoshang had probably been killed, after all, he lived in Sounhaqh.

‘It would be…ah, this is very coercive of me,’ Thricksten said, ‘but, do you not think it would be a good way to remember him? Remember them? You have lost a lot. More than- More than any of us.’

‘That _is_ manipulative,’ Eran said, but he was already decided. ‘Come along then. It’s been over a year, you may find yourself disappointed.’

‘We’ll see,’ Thricksten said, picking up a wooden box that was about half their body size, and carrying it with them into the cabin.

*

Thricksten dressed him in blue and gold, though Eran was used to warm tones, he didn’t mind it at all. He fixed the coin belt tightly to his hips, marvelling at the beading and embroidery. The materials and symbols were from the sea, but the style of beading was from his home. The hip scarf had gold fringes. He knelt for ear jewellery, neck jewellery, touching the circlets of gold and blue stone. It looked like lapis lazuli, which he knew very well, but the closer he looked, he realised it was a kind of shell.

He double checked his eye paint in a mirror, adding a line of gold above and below the black. It dulled by the amber of his eyes, and his heart fluttered to see it. Thricksten placed cuffs around his wrists and ankles, rings on his fingers, taking them off and replacing them when they didn’t fit.

‘Do you know many styles?’ Thricksten said.

‘A few,’ Eran said, as Thricksten painted Eran’s cheeks in gold, his forehead, dusting it onto his cropped beard. Then Thricksten took the band and placed it across Eran’s forehead, attaching the veils that would hide his face from the crowd. Eran’s back was bare, had already been painted in gold. Not the symbols or glyphs of home, but shell-like patterns, waves, the spirals of water.

‘Do you know the scale dance?’

‘Yes,’ Eran said. He paused, forehead furrowing. The words kindled something in him that had never been touched before. The scale dance, with its history shrouded in darkness and shadow, as the fae around him talked about its specialness without knowing why it was so special. An ancient dance, one of worship, for something unknown, or…

‘ _Dragons_ ,’ he whispered.

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing,’ Eran said, shaking his wrists to listen to them jingle. It sounded perfect. It made him feel warmer just to hear it. But he’d have to be careful, because none of these fabrics had been treated to withstand his fire, and he wouldn’t burn what they had made and collected over time. ‘I was just thinking about where the scale dance came from.’

Did ambaros used to dance for dragons? Did they learn it from them? Removing veil after veil, revealing themselves slowly, Eran used to think of snakes shedding their skin, but now…

He cleared his throat. ‘Thank you, for this.’

‘No, no, don’t,’ Thricksten said. ‘Please. All thanks with you, instead. It is kind of you to humour us. Who knows when it will be safe enough to travel to the desert again, and I have to raise Tamaden to be a good fine adult. Maybe they’ll come with me. Now. Are you ready? You should test the belt, make sure it doesn’t fall.’

Eran stood fluidly, feeling how having the silks, the costume upon him, changed the way he moved. Even the way he carried his wrists was different. Now everything had to be intentional. He would shift to jingle the bells, or his body would move so smoothly that the bells would hardly make a sound. He stepped across the cabin, the balance on his feet changing, He raised his arms above his head, letting his relaxed fingers brush gracefully against each other, then raised his hip and dropped it hard, listening to the satisfying clash of thin metal coins.

He dropped his hands and fixed the belt tighter, careful with the hooks. He raised his arms again and moved through hip drops, a shimmy, and the belt stayed in place.

‘There,’ he said. ‘It’s good.’

‘You _can_ dance,’ Thricksten said, having watched silently, respectfully.

‘I hope so,’ Eran said. ‘And I hope you’re good on the dombak. This could be fun.’

*

Fae had emptied the dance floor when Eran came out in his veils of silk in varying teals and deep blues. He suspected Tamaden – who was practically vibrating in excitement – had something to do with it. But when fae nearby saw him, some stepped closer to watch automatically. Eran walked to the centre of the dance floor, looking through the gauzy silks before him. He could barely see.

He started with his back facing the crowd, looking towards Thricksten with his dombak, and the others holding more instruments, ready to play. He was nervous. He knew these people couldn’t possibly know the dances as well as he did, but he wanted to make his family proud. He had their blood in his veins, he had his mother’s voice in his ear, telling him to loosen his hips properly. Ada and Adalia spiralling around him, arms stretching out like they were fires themselves.

He took slow, deep breaths and then raised his hands, moving his wrists until they sat in the correct position. He lowered one side of his hips, extended a leg, and let the ball of one foot touch the ground delicately.

After so long being unable to connect to fire, he found it here, in the pose of a dance he hadn’t let himself remember for over a year. He felt a flash of ice in the corner of his mind, heard the panicked shouting, but it drowned beneath the beating of the drum in his heart, the drum Ifir played for his mother, the smoke of the fires around them and the ululation of cheerful, impressed onlookers.

Alongside the drums of the past, he heard the first rumbling beat of the dombak, as Thricksten rolled their fingers across it. This was the way the scale dance started at his home too, and he raised his arms higher, closing his eyes, remembering to pulse his inner flame through his bones and into his fingertips.

_Don’t burn their silks. Remember._

Then, the drum beats began, and Eran found himself moving to them like he had been dancing throughout the year he’d been lost. It helped that the dance started slowly, and he could feel that his hips were tighter than he was used to. He was carrying more tension than usual in his shoulders, in his thighs. But the dance helped to pound and stretch it away, sinuous movements followed by the jingling thump of his heel against the wood. The shimmies that turned the world to a sound that shone as bright as the sun.

He removed the first veil, then five minutes later, he removed the second, letting them flutter and fall to the ground in places where he wasn’t going to step on them again. He sensed a crowd gathering around him, heard Thricksten cheer at one of his moves, a vibrant, appreciative sound of the kind they might make in the desert. Here on the sea, surrounded by the whispering of waves, it felt like home.

Little flames licked up from his hands, and he tossed them into the air before they could set the cuffs at his wrists alight. He could sense the fire floating around him, hanging in the air for a few seconds before vanishing, and after a while he turned them blue because that matched the veils better.

Another veil fell, another, and Eran was sweating now, the drumbeat accelerating, Eran feeling it like a second heartbeat in his ribs. He spun, did isolations easily though his torso burned for it, rolling and shimmying his hips, at one point spinning with two veils – one in each hand – eyes open and glowing.

The song neared its crescendo, Eran readied himself to remove the final veil. The one that covered his back and chest and face, that was fixed in such a way that he had to be careful to do it right. Back home, he would set it alight and let it burn off his body, but he wouldn’t with these.

He felt the joy of it when he managed it correctly, when – at the finale of the throbbing drums and cymbals and crashing coins of the belt and the bells at his wrists in his ears – the final scarf fell down around him and he tipped his head back and blew a jet of fire directly into the air, blue flames hanging in the midst around him, winking out at random.

When he lowered his head to the crowd, he saw Mosk standing there before him, his grey-green eyes wide, his mouth open, his hands opening and closing in slow motions like he wanted to grasp something, or someone.

Eran kept staring when the crowd began to cheer and clap and he didn’t blink when Thricksten began the high trilling, the sound of zaghareet that felt so good. He took a single jingling step towards Mosk.

Mosk backed off, one hand coming to his mouth, then he turned and fled through the crowd. He left Eran standing there, surrounded by joyful fae – even Gwyn clapping alongside Ondine, a look of wonder on his face – the fires of home kindled in his heart and the right person no longer there to share them with.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter, 'Lessons':
> 
> ‘If you cannot use the bow,’ Gwyn said, ‘you do not have to use it. I do not like to use the longbow, and I used to be very good.’ 
> 
> ‘Okay,’ Mosk said, feeling strangely enabled by the gentleness in Gwyn’s voice. It wasn’t like his voice was ever truly _soft._ His voice was suited for harshness, abruptness, orders, but every now and then he spoke like this and Mosk appreciated it. He took the bow and held it in his shaking, nerveless fingers. ‘It’s the only thing I know.’ 
> 
> ‘Any weapon can be learned,’ Gwyn said. 
> 
> ‘You…don’t like the longbow?’ Mosk said, desperate to distract himself. He looked up at Gwyn, who was now looking at the wall hung with longbows, a strange expression on his face. Mosk thought maybe he was yearning for something. 
> 
> ‘There are unspeakable things we can do with the weapons we love,’ Gwyn said, his voice rougher than before, one of his hands smoothing down his hip like it was sweaty. ‘This is something you would know. I imagine it was no easy thing to be an Aur dryad and shoot at Olphix.’


	11. Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading! And a huge thanks to the folks who leave kudos / comment / bookmark the fic, it's so appreciated <3 Feel free to come talk to me on Tumblr! It's also always worth checking out the [Fae Tales Fanart](https://not-poignant.tumblr.com/tagged/fae%20tales%20fanart) tag, because some folks have drawn amazing Mosks and Erans.
> 
> Author's Note: Gwyn isn't always giving Mosk the best advice, but he's *Gwyn* and he still has some twisted up thoughts about things.

_Mosk_

*

Mosk didn’t know what it was like to dance. He’d had moments in the forest when he’d moved with the trees, or when a whirl of leaves had prompted him to spin or climb or laugh, but he’d never learned _steps._ He’d never learned how to move his hips properly, how to twine his arms in the air or do any of the beautiful things Eran had done. Now he could never do it, because it would be like a beetle learning to dance next to a god.

Eran had said he was upset because Mosk had lied to him, but it couldn’t be true, not when he could dance that joyously, not when he looked so perfectly in sync with the world around him. Mosk had run away as quickly as he could when Eran finished – quicker than he’d been for over a year – finding a dark corner of the ship where the sea trows henked away nearby. Even _they_ could dance.

He had no words for the racing, fluttering sensations inside him. It was cold, the lights they’d strung up for the evening didn’t extend this far. His breath shook and trembled in his lungs.

His guilt climbed until he hid in the linen closet where he’d first found the fire coloured blankets. He’d tucked himself away on a shelf, behind a stack of blankets that smelled of oily fish. The sea trows had found him there, stared at him for long enough that he thought he’d be reprimanded, but in the end they’d left him alone after yanking down five blankets from the highest shelf just by pointing at them with their fingers. He’d never seen a trow’s powers before, and they didn’t acknowledge him again.

He crept out when he got too cramped only to find a crowd around a dance floor, and the curly hair of the King gleamed in the light. He’d moved forwards, slipping between fae he didn’t know, only to see Eran there in the centre, spinning and dancing and too good, far too good for someone like Mosk.

At the end, Eran had looked right at him and Mosk couldn’t handle that fierce gaze or the wildness of him.

He hated it, he didn’t want to be useless forever. He couldn’t keep hiding but he was so worthless to all of them. He backed up into the damp corner, pressed his hands over his face, and felt the nakedness of his wrist. His chest ached. He’d untied it himself, placing the rope in the drawer next to the shell, that had somehow grown moss _into_ the wood of the drawer, forcing Mosk to tear it free. He picked off all the moss and stared at the spiral shell, tracing it, wishing it was the curve of Chaley’s skull instead.

Now…what was he supposed to do? He couldn’t get the image of Eran out of his mind. He’d never seen someone that beautiful in his life, and it had happened right when Mosk had ruined things irreparably.

Mosk whined softly to himself, unable to keep the spill of feeling inside. In the end he slid down to the wet floor, barnacles digging into his back through his shirt. He tucked his head between his knees and hoped that no one found him.

But when no one came to him for the rest of the night, he felt a loneliness so sharp that it hurt to breathe.

*

The next morning he went to visit the Raven Prince. He stood in the crow’s nest, the Raven Prince in true form next to him, and neither of them spoke to the other. Mosk liked the feeling of being high above everything, the Raven Prince must like that feeling too. He had, after all, been trapped in a raven form for a long time.

Mosk looked down as the ship was raised once more, the merchant vessel having sailed away before dawn. He saw Gwyn and some of the other ship crew training together. Gwyn had a new sword, the Raven Prince having destroyed the last one.

Mosk climbed down the crow’s nest slowly, thinking that even though the Raven Prince had used his magic on Mosk, Mosk hadn’t minded it as much as he thought. He wasn’t sure what to think of the advice to ‘use’ Davix. It was true, Davix hadn’t hurt him, and Mosk had far more power than he realised…but they’d _tortured_ him. It wasn’t just that they’d ripped his magic from him, or his heartsong, but that they’d set out to wear him down by physically hurting him over and over again.

He wanted to touch his belly, soothe the ghostly hurt that returned, but he focused on climbing instead.

At the bottom of the crow’s nest, he looked around, reorienting himself. Seeing things from above wasn’t the same as knowing exactly where to go once he was on the deck. In the past, he would have listened to the trees, would have known what their roots were touching and that would guide him wherever he wanted to go.

It took him a couple of tries to find Gwyn, eventually the sounds of combat drew him closer. He watched as Gwyn used the sword effortlessly, focused, and made sure not to hurt the fae he was with. Even so, when he smacked one down with the flat of the sword, he sent them flying twenty feet backwards. He hadn’t even broken out in a sweat. He sprinted over to the fae.

‘Are you okay?’ he said.

‘Yeah!’ the fae said cheerfully, getting up, red fins flaring at their neck and shoulders.

Gwyn nodded, then turned and looked at Mosk as though he’d known he’d been there all along. He came over, smiling, and Mosk thought that even though he was too broad and too muscular, there was something infectious about that smile. It wasn’t bright and sunny like Eran’s, or genuinely warm like Ash’s, but…there was an innocence about it.

‘Good morning!’ Gwyn said, raising his hand and bringing it down on Mosk’s shoulder. It felt like a blow, but after a moment, Mosk realised he was just clasping him. ‘Are you hale?’

‘Um, yeah,’ Mosk said, as the other fae went back to sparring easily. ‘Can I…talk to you?’

‘Is this about the dreams you’ve been having?’ Gwyn said, immediately steering him away from the others, and Mosk resisted the pressure. Gwyn let up, but Mosk was tense and unhappy and didn’t like the way Gwyn looked at him now. Like Mosk was bad news.

‘I want…to not be so useless?’ Mosk said, refusing to look up and see the expression on Gwyn’s face. ‘And I know I am! And I know I probably will be forever, compared to all of you but maybe… I don’t have a true-form like Eran in battle, and I can’t do dra’ocht like Ash, and I can’t-’

‘Mosk,’ Gwyn said firmly, but calmly, ‘I knew all of this when we decided to take you with us. It’s all right. It is no bother to care for you.’

It didn’t help, Mosk felt even more pathetic than before. ‘But, maybe, if I could learn the recurve bow again…?’ Mosk said.

His heart moved queasily in his chest, Gwyn’s fingers tightened on his shoulder. ‘You are uncertain.’

‘I don’t know how much use it is against fae anyway,’ Mosk said, staring down at his feet. ‘You can hunt with a recurve, but I don’t eat meat. The arrows seem like…they won’t do anything against most fae.’

In his mind, he saw his best arrow turning to powder long before it ever reached Olphix’s body. It disintegrated.

‘As a distraction,’ Gwyn said, ‘it works well. If we get magicked arrows for you, they will do much more damage. But if anything, it’s very promising that you want to try, even if you can’t do it, Mosk. I know where the bows are kept, come along.’

Gwyn’s hand rested on his lower back and steered him easily. It had a confidence to it that reminded him of Eran, and he swallowed and looked down at his bare wrist and wanted to touch rope instead.

He was led through a smooth, gleaming wooden door, down some unfamiliar stairs that were inlaid with tiny spiral shells in greens and blues. Gwyn said nothing as they continued to walk, passing door after door, until he opened one that looked the same as the rest and they entered a room filled with all kinds of items that shot projectiles. Longbows, crossbows, recurves, but also slingshots in varying sizes, and then throwing weapons too, like kestros, bolas and javelins. An entire wall was devoted to quivers stuffed with arrows that had different fletchings. Most were fletched with the stiff fins of fish.

Gwyn picked up one of the recurve bows, looked at Mosk critically, and then picked a smaller, lighter one that was exactly the size of the one he used to use in the Aur forest.

Nervousness grew inside him like a vine, choking out the parts of him that had been determined to get rid of his uselessness. When Gwyn handed him the bow – it wasn’t even strung yet, it was just…a harmless piece of wood – Mosk stared at it for a long time.

‘If you cannot use the bow,’ Gwyn said, ‘you do not have to use it. I do not like to use the longbow, and I used to be very good.’

‘Okay,’ Mosk said, feeling strangely enabled by the gentleness in Gwyn’s voice. It wasn’t like his voice was ever truly _soft_. His voice was suited for harshness, abruptness, orders, but every now and then he spoke like this and Mosk appreciated it. He took the bow and held it in his shaking, nerveless fingers. ‘It’s the only thing I know.’

‘Any weapon can be learned,’ Gwyn said.

‘You…don’t like the longbow?’ Mosk said, desperate to distract himself. He looked up at Gwyn, who was now looking at the wall hung with longbows, a strange expression on his face. Mosk thought maybe he was yearning for something.

‘There are unspeakable things we can do with the weapons we love,’ Gwyn said, his voice rougher than before, one of his hands smoothing down his hip like it was sweaty. ‘This is something you would know. I imagine it was no easy thing to be an Aur dryad and shoot at Olphix.’

Mosk hadn’t expected him to bring it up so boldly. His body tingled with fear, it surged root-like down his arm, into his fingers, and he clenched the bow hard. Gwyn looked at him, then down at the bow where Mosk was holding it. His eyes widened just as Mosk felt something brush against his finger. Panicking, he let go of the bow, it clattered to the ground.

Across it, hickory leaves still grew from it even though Mosk was no longer holding it.

A sudden terror. His growing ability had woken and _done_ this – he didn’t remember any of his brothers or sisters having these problems, but maybe he hadn’t paid attention. Gwyn had _seen._

He took several steps backwards from the bow, hearing the sound of branches growing too quickly, sliding along the wooden floor like serpents.

He bolted towards the door.

 _‘Wait!’_ Gwyn shouted, and even as Mosk skidded to a stop, Gwyn was there with a hard hand around his upper arm.

‘It’s nothing! It’s nothing!’ Mosk shouted. ‘Please don’t make me do it. Please! It just started happening and I can’t control it and I don’t want it!’

‘Mosk,’ Gwyn said, his voice not a strike like before. ‘Mosk, calm down. Why are you so afraid?’

‘You’ll make me use it and I can’t control it and I don’t want to use it, I don’t want it back! I don’t know why it keeps happening and I can’t make it stop.’

He thought Gwyn would interrupt him, but Gwyn let him keep rambling until he wound down. Gwyn said nothing for a long time and when Mosk dared to look up, the King of the Unseelie fae was watching him with an uncharacteristically soft expression.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Mosk said, unable to stop his voice from sounding accusing. He was awful, he was meant to call him ‘Your Majesty’ but after a while he’d started forgetting because Gwyn never seemed to care. But maybe he would start caring. Maybe he’d get angry. He was so scary when he was angry.

‘Stay there,’ Gwyn said, letting go of his arm and walking over to pick up the bow. He turned the wood in his hands. It was a monstrosity. Roots and branches sprouted, fully grown leaves alongside buds. It would die, Mosk couldn’t change that. He refused to tell Gwyn about the golden mistletoe. The plant had died quickly and the Raven Prince was keeping his secrets so far. ‘You can bring dead wood back to life?’

‘It just happens,’ Mosk whispered.

‘You’ve done it before?’

‘Please don’t make me use it,’ Mosk said.

‘You’re not pleased that your powers are returning?’

‘No,’ Mosk said.

‘Or is this your magic?’

‘I don’t know. It all seems the same.’

Gwyn was turning the recurve bow; a deformed tree now in his hands. His lips pursed, and then he looked at Mosk as though making a decision.

‘Come with me,’ he said.

‘I don’t want to,’ Mosk said.

‘I’ve taken that into consideration. Come with me.’

Gwyn’s hand dropped to Mosk’s lower back, and Mosk was powerless to resist, left wondering if something about Gwyn’s dra’ocht made people want to listen to him. But he was the King, and even though he was a strange fae, he radiated power all the time. Mosk wondered what it was like for the Each Uisge, dealing with him, Gwyn seemed to find it so easy to ignore him at times.

Mosk was led to another indistinct room, inside was shelf after shelf of art and craft supplies. A table, an easel, tiny glass jars filled with inks that all looked like they’d be black until he saw the little stains of bright pigment around the corks. Gwyn sat down at the table and indicated that Mosk should sit down opposite him, placing the hickory branch bow down on the table between them.

‘Tell me why I shouldn’t use this?’ Gwyn said.

‘Please don’t make me.’

‘Begging is not a reason.’

‘I can’t control it,’ Mosk said quickly, when he went to continue, Gwyn raised his hand.

‘I can tell you’re lying to me. You can control it, at least sometimes. Even if you couldn’t control it today. So this is something set loose by your emotions, but also at random?’

‘Please,’ Mosk said. ‘What use is it anyway? I don’t want anyone to know. If Olphix finds out…’

Gwyn stroked at golden stubble, his thumb curving along his jaw and ending at his chin, before his hand dropped to the table. After a moment, he half-smiled.

‘I suppose I am known for it,’ he said, looking down. ‘It is a good thing to be known for in this business. A certain ruthlessness tends to frighten people into obedience and it’s convenient. But Mosk, have you not noticed that…I’ve never forced you into using weapons? There are times I cannot let you keep your lies, but I have not gone out of my way to force you into more duress than necessary. Does it benefit me, for you to be afraid all the time? For you to be a prisoner for longer than you have been? Do you think I am blind to the fact that you don’t wish to be here, and you are essentially our prisoner anyway, even though I would wish for you to be a guest of the Court?’

Mosk stared at him, then shook his head, because he hadn’t realised any of those things.

‘So you won’t make me?’ he said.

‘Not now,’ Gwyn said. The response curdled Mosk’s stomach and he wrung his hands under the table, but Gwyn sighed. ‘Mosk, when I make you do things you do not wish to, please know it’s because I’ve considered the alternatives, and what I choose is the best course of action. Are we not still alive? You are safer from Olphix on this ship, even though it places Augus and Ash under tremendous strain.’

‘Why don’t you like using the longbow?’ Mosk said, risking the words.

Gwyn was silent for so long that Mosk was sure he’d offended him. Eventually, Gwyn leaned back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. Mosk looked up too, surprised to see a mural painted of a whale and her calf. Someone had painted it in violets and blues, adding to it the refractive qualities of fish scales.

‘A long time ago,’ Gwyn said, ‘I suppose I fell in love. It ended badly.’

 _There are unspeakable things we can do with the weapons we love_.

Mosk stared at Gwyn, the way he didn’t look down to see Mosk’s reaction. He didn’t offer anything more. Mosk felt like it was a story anyway.

‘Was…it an accident?’ Mosk said.

Gwyn smiled, but there was nothing happy about the expression. ‘No. Augus would tell you I did not have a choice.’

‘Did you?’

‘I could have died,’ Gwyn said, his smile broadening before fading completely. ‘Perhaps I should have. But I didn’t. There. Sometimes we do things that we regret forever, Mosk. I’m sure there will be people who will tell you that it’s not your fault the Aur forest is gone, or your family, and I do not think it is entirely your fault, but…well. We know differently, don’t we?’

‘Yeah,’ Mosk said.

The King had used a longbow and someone he loved had died and it wasn’t an accident. Mosk had used a recurve to try and save himself and his family had died, that wasn’t an accident either.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mosk said. The apology stung him. There were so many things to apologise for, he didn’t know what to do with the weight of Gwyn’s mood in the room.

‘I’ve never talked to anyone else about it,’ Gwyn said, looking down abruptly. ‘Only Augus, and Ash, because Ash has a way of wheedling information free before you realise what’s happened. But I feel like it does me no benefit at all for you to only ever be afraid of me. Making accommodations makes no difference, I doubt you see them. So it is this instead. But if you want me to respect your wishes, you will respect my privacy, or I will see to it that you regret having ever met me.’

Gwyn said all of it calmly, Mosk realised that this was something he couldn’t even tell Eran.

‘Okay,’ Mosk said. ‘I won’t tell.’

Gwyn grimaced, and Mosk wondered if Gwyn didn’t believe him.

‘But…please don’t tell anyone about that,’ Mosk said, pointing to the bow.

‘Can all Aur dryads revive dead plants?’ Gwyn asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Mosk said. ‘My mamatree could, but it took her a long time and it was never by accident.’

As Mosk said it, he stared at the thing that used to be a bow. He’d spent his entire life doubting he was ever the seventh son of a seventh son. Everyone assured him that he’d come into his magic, his power, and he knew it would never happen, because he was the most plain and ordinary Aur dryad to have ever existed. But now, as he looked at the thing before him – thankfully it had stopped growing – he wondered if one of the reasons he found it so hard to control the moss on the shell, or what he’d done now, was to do with what they all said he was.

‘I don’t want to be what I am,’ Mosk said, staring at the hickory. He couldn’t even hear it, and for once he was glad. How would it be happy? Twisted up and away from the soil? Unable to grow like it should? He’d forced life where there wasn’t any and it would still die.

‘A sentiment I know only too well, I’m afraid,’ Gwyn said, reaching out and tracing the deep green hickory leaves with a gentle finger. ‘But three thousand years has taught me that we remain what we are and the longer we fight it, the worse it tends to be.’

‘So I should just accept that I’m a monster? And awful? And terrible to others? And useless?’

Gwyn’s bright blue eyes met Mosk’s after a moment. There was no smile on his face, like Augus or Ash might have.

‘Yes,’ Gwyn said. ‘As long as you can accept everything else about yourself. Then…yes.’

‘Everything else?’

Gwyn looked back to the hickory. ‘Powerful, with a strong will, possessed of magic and ability both, cooperative within the bounds of what you have experienced. Rebellious too. In your own way.’

‘But I’m none of those-’

Gwyn stared at him, Mosk’s words died in his throat. ‘If you’re going to disagree with me, do so quietly, in your own mind. I’m still the King of the Unseelie, if I choose to say these things about you, perhaps you should take more than a few seconds before throwing them away. I know you have heard a great deal of garbage from some very powerful people, but we are not all made the same.’

Mosk scraped his fingers underneath the table, then made himself nod. His cheeks burned.

‘I liked you,’ Gwyn said musingly, as he drew the hickory branch-bow towards himself and moved the roots around. ‘When we met in the Unseelie Court, during the Masque. Do you remember?’

‘Yeah,’ Mosk said. ‘You liked me?’

‘You weren’t insufferable like all the other status-hungry fools,’ Gwyn said, laughing to himself. ‘You had a mask of hawk feathers.’

Mosk blinked. ‘Yes! I remember. I had to steal them from around a nest, over the course of their moult. They got used to me, and I always brought other feathers to line their nest with so they wouldn’t miss the ones I was taking. It took months. I didn’t even want to go to the Masque. I wasn’t- It wasn’t normally me who went to Court.’

‘You were already quite good at the recurve bow, even then,’ Gwyn said.

‘You told me to shoot at leaves,’ Mosk said, smiling. ‘When I said I had no moving targets. It was really helpful.’

‘Did you ever manage it?’

‘Yeah, I did. It took…a while. But first I could do moving targets and then I learned how to shoot leaves while I was moving, and then running. After that, I could shoot anything…’

In his mind’s eye, an arrow disintegrated into dust over and over again, and then the world turned into vindictive flames.

‘I guess,’ he added.

‘You’ve changed so much since then,’ Gwyn said.

‘Did…’ Mosk shifted in his seat. ‘Did using the longbow like that…did it change you too?’

‘Yes, it did,’ Gwyn said. ‘It shattered my heartsong in an instant. I think I was less cynical before everything happened. Even in the An Fnwy estate. Thankfully, there are many things that will continue to change you. You’ve already matured a lot in the short time I’ve known you. Perhaps you don’t see it.’

‘I dunno,’ Mosk said, pointing to what he’d done with his powers. ‘Seems pretty obvious to me.’

Gwyn huffed in amusement, but then shook his head, standing and picking up the hickory. ‘That’s not entirely what I meant, but I take your point. Now, I recall that you injured Eran with a dagger early on in your journey together. Perhaps you’d like one of those instead?’

‘No,’ Mosk whispered and then shivered, standing as well. ‘I don’t know. Do you think I should have one?’

‘I’ll get you something small,’ Gwyn said. ‘You won’t have to use it. Come along.’

Mosk followed Gwyn obediently, staring at the hickory and mentally begging no one to notice or care what it was that Gwyn was holding. But hardly anyone saw them, and when they reached the main decking, Gwyn threw the bow off the side of the ship easily, and it vanished into the deep shadows where the waves met the heavy curve of the Mantissa. At first he thought of it disappearing, but then he remembered there were whole metropolises down beneath them.

Twenty minutes later, another series of rooms, and Mosk had a small blade that only swung out when he pressed a mechanism on the side of the handle. The blade was wicked and sharp, but the rest of the time it was just a handle and Mosk didn’t have to think of it as the knife it was. The handle was carved from something like ivory, maybe even some sort of white coral, in a pattern of fish scales.

After that, Gwyn was called away by some fae on business, and it was only then that he realised that Gwyn didn’t seem to want to leave. As the King vanished, Mosk touched the switchblade in his pocket. He shied away from the weapon, his thoughts fell back towards how beautiful Eran had looked as he danced and how far away he felt even though he was somewhere on the ship.

*

He took refuge at the top of the crow’s nest, turning the knife in his hands. He perched on the rim of the wood, staring at the heavy, black cumulonimbus ahead. Storms were coming. In the distance, angry forks of lightning didn’t stop.

‘No sea dreamed that storm up,’ the Raven Prince said. He was standing in the crow’s nest today, leaning back against the rail, his arms resting on it, hands draped gracefully. Mosk looked at him, then looked back to the storm. ‘How nasty.’

‘It’s for us?’ Mosk said.

‘A welcoming gift.’

It was true that the Mantissa was beginning to rock back and forth with more drunken pitching in her movements. Mosk was so used to it now. It felt exactly like the worst of his vertigo when he’d first left Davix and Olphix, he’d gotten accustomed to it then.

‘You really think I should use Davix?’ Mosk said.

‘It’s what he deserves,’ the Raven Prince said, smiling to himself and tilting his face up into the wind. ‘If I was taking on apprentices, I’d consider you for myself. But given my last big undertaking failed me, perhaps I am not ready for an apprentice.’

‘The…you mean the spell that brought you back?’

‘The very same,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘How humbling. If I can still make mistakes, it means there is still much for me to learn. I find I like that thought.’

‘You’d take me on as an apprentice?’ Mosk said, staring at him. ‘But I don’t have my magic back. I don’t even know what it looks like.’

‘I do,’ the Raven Prince said, tapping his nose gracefully. ‘I can see the form of it. You’ll need to apprentice to _someone.’_

‘I hate the School of the Staff,’ Mosk said.

‘You hate an incredibly imbalanced organisation saturated with plump ticks feeding off the ripe mass of the world’s magic? Goodness, _why?’_

Mosk stared, and the Raven Prince stared back, before grinning. He surged forwards and crossed the crow’s nest until he could lean against the other side, right next to Mosk. For a second, Mosk feared that the Raven Prince would push him off, but it never happened.

‘Yet,’ the Raven Prince said, ‘there is no better place to learn magic.’

‘If you teach me magic,’ Mosk said, ‘then I’ll use it to destroy the School.’

It was an impulsive thing to say, driven more by his hatred of Olphix and Davix, but as soon as the words were free he felt something settle deep inside of him. A spite so broad that it went beyond wanting to tear Davix’s magical cloak in the ice, all the way to needing to destroy the thing that Davix and Olphix had created. Mosk would never be strong enough, but if he was ever strong enough, he knew that’s what he’d do.

It shamed him. He was supposed to look after a forest. He was supposed to be a pacifist.

He sensed the black, concerted gaze of the Raven Prince upon him and he couldn’t look at him. He was scared of what he might see.

‘If that’s what you’ll use it for…’ the Raven Prince said. ‘Ah, that is exactly the kind of foolish thing we do. I remember saying I’d be King one day. Look at that. I may be one of the best Mages, Mosk, but I cannot train you to kill the rest of them who would defend their School.’

‘Would they all defend it?’ Mosk said sharply. ‘You’re not. Besides, I’m not going to learn. I hate all of this. I hate _all_ of it. I just want to be in a forest. And I want everything to be over. It’s not going to happen.’

‘Impudent, immature, ill-conceived and ill-at-ease, I think-’

‘Stop,’ Mosk said, shuddering, feeling unwell. ‘You sound like him.’

‘I would, sometimes,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘I loved languages long before I met him, and he did not love them quite so much until he met me. He was, after all, one of my direct tutors. I had far more in common with Davix than with Olphix.’

Mosk’s fingers scraped across the wood and he took a deep, cold breath of the sea air. In the distance darts of lightning shot into the sea, across the sky, getting slowly closer and closer. The rumble of thunder was a background noise so complete that Mosk felt like he’d heard it all his life.

‘He learned…he did the…he talked like that because of you?’

‘You don’t think he was incapable of learning when we met, do you? Why, he was immensely curious, thirsted for life even as he could show no care or regard for it.’ A kind of thick awe rested heavy in the Raven Prince’s voice. ‘But I _hated_ him, Mosk Manytrees. Still, I am a better Mage because of him, and he became a better Mage because of me. They were superior, egotistical, and yet…they knew there were wisdoms they knew not. They welcomed us. We yielded, allowed them to ransack our minds and in exchange, they taught us and welded us to our strengths. You would destroy their School? Killing Olphix would be easier.’

‘Destroying the School would be easier after that,’ Mosk said. ‘Wouldn’t it?’

‘You forget that there is the Twelve,’ the Raven Prince said, tilting his head. ‘There are deeply sleeping Mages in the world who haven’t been seen for so long they are forgotten, who would stir and come to defend their School. If you want to do it, you’ll need to be much more than a Master Mage.’

‘Everyone keeps telling me I’m a seventh son of a seventh son,’ Mosk said angrily. ‘It has to mean something! I’m either useless, or I’m not. If I’m useless, then I can’t do it, and I don’t _care._ If I’m not useless, then maybe I can, and then I do!’

The Raven Prince’s eyes – staring ahead – widened a little.

‘Pray,’ the Raven Prince said slyly, ‘do you know what your heartsong is becoming?’

‘No,’ Mosk said. ‘Do you?’

‘Be careful,’ the Raven Prince said, grinning at him sidelong, a secret light in his eyes. ‘You grow dangerous, little weed. But you have the Unseelie King, the ghost of the second-most powerful Mage of all time, and myself bending your ear. We can forgive a little _danger.’_

‘Why do you even talk to me?’ Mosk said.

‘Who knows? Perhaps I was in a forest once, as a raven, and a young man talked to me thinking I was only a bird. Is it so impossible, even, that I – a lover of all languages – might enjoy _talking?_ Amazing. Unfathomable.’

‘Yeah, okay then,’ Mosk said, rolling his eyes, watching the alien thunderstorm. He’d never seen anything like it. ‘Will that sink us?’

‘They are a threat,’ the Raven Prince said concisely.

‘Eran said something about the House of Atros, once.’

‘Howlaas make storms like that. The House of Atros command their clan. Or they did. Presumably, it looks like they still do.’

The Raven Prince looked down towards the hole in the crow’s nest and Mosk followed his gaze. A minute later, Gwyn poked his head through the crow’s nest, looking up at them both. It was hard to read his expression.

Gwyn pulled himself up easily and looked between the two of them, then something in his expression seemed to settle, as though he’d made up his mind about Mosk and the Raven Prince spending time together.

‘You only have another ten minutes up here before you need to seek shelter,’ he said.

‘You will never catch me beneath the sea,’ the Raven Prince said, tipping up his chin, eyes narrowing. ‘Not even in a _boat._ I will find my own way. But yes, the weed should be made safe.’

‘Magnanimous of you,’ Gwyn said wryly.

‘Why did you never do anything with your magic?’ the Raven Prince said. ‘Did your parents forbid it?’

Gwyn was silent for a long time, it looked like he was considering whether to even answer in the first place. Finally, looking towards the storm, he said:

‘I was raised to be a soldier.’

‘There are Mage soldiers,’ the Raven Prince said. If Mosk didn’t know any better, he’d say his voice was almost gentle.

‘Then I suppose my parents forbade it,’ Gwyn said, smiling a little.

‘And after that?’

‘I wasn’t interested,’ Gwyn said.

The Raven Prince’s nostrils flared, he pushed away from the railing like he wanted to walk towards Gwyn, but then seemed to think the better of it.

‘You must know how much you have. You were meant to be mine. My apprentice. I would have taken you on.’

‘I’m sure,’ Gwyn said, rolling his eyes. ‘The great Raven Prince, who has never taken on an apprentice his entire life, would have taken on the son of-’

‘I can make very pretty lies when I want to,’ the Raven Prince said, ‘but this is the truth. There is no Mage that does not like shaping an abundance of raw power in the direction they wish to shape it. If I had met yours, untwisted and wild and young, I would have taken it on, and you by default. It cannot happen now.’

‘Because I’d say no?’ Gwyn said, arching a brow.

‘Because three thousand years is enough to twist talent into something boring. I can’t be bothered with the years it would take you to unlearn the bad habits you’ve picked up with it. Best to get them young.’

He looked at Mosk, and then allowed a small, mischievous smile.

‘Also,’ the Raven Prince said to Gwyn, ‘you have grown ugly and _martial,_ and war is revolting. A martial Mage?’

‘You talk like it would be a privilege to train under you, that I am the one who should feel rejected,’ Gwyn said calmly, ‘but it is no interest of mine to be played by a bird shifter who took pleasure in harming those who served him so loyally. I know what you are, I know the true colours of you, and I know there is nought in your soul except a bleak, empty wasteland. Keep your pretty words, orator, everything about you is poison.’

The Raven Prince stared at Gwyn, expressionless, his eyes glittering. Gwyn ignored it and gestured to Mosk.

‘It’s time for you to come down, or you will be pitched from the mast.’

‘But-’

‘It’s an order, Mosk.’

He waited for Mosk to leave before him, and as he began to descend the mast, the Raven Prince took three steps forwards and placed the tip of his finger against Gwyn’s chest.

‘You are something of an orator too, aren’t you?’ the Raven Prince said, as Gwyn brushed away the Raven Prince’s arm. ‘How did you end up the way that you are, raised by those worms?’

‘You have grown so used to valuing only the things that look like you, act like you, that you have forgotten there is value in the rest of it too,’ Gwyn said, and Mosk caught a hint of the Raven Prince’s smile.

‘That, I allow, is true. But, Gwyn ap Nudd, even poisonous birds have value.’

‘And so you’re here at my will, not imprisoned nor dead,’ Gwyn said. ‘Keep yourself safe during the storm.’

Gwyn started to move down the mast, forcing Mosk to climb downwards. The Raven Prince looked through the gap above them.

‘You think you could kill me, Gwyn ap Nudd?’ the Raven Prince said.

‘Why not?’ Gwyn said.

The Raven Prince burst into laughter, then as it died down he said joyously: ‘Being stubborn does not make a thing true, young man!’

Gwyn paused on the mast. ‘Being the most successful War General of any Seelie lineage, destroying the bulk of the Unseelie land ownings long before Augus destroyed the rest of the Court – even you couldn’t stop my hand in that, could you? – and then rescuing the Unseelie Court when it fell into my hands – I think it stacks the odds in my favour. Mages always think they’re invincible, I think it’s fun when they realise they’re not.’

The Raven Prince’s eyes gleamed with avid hunger. ‘You still owe me a story. It’s not like you to hold out on a debt, is it?’

‘Keep yourself safe in that storm,’ Gwyn called back, and continued to climb down the mast, Mosk hurrying down to make sure he didn’t get a boot in the head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter, 'A Liar and the Truth':
> 
> ‘I’m sorry,’ Eran said. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you so upset. I’m not going to tell you that you’re bad.’ 
> 
> ‘I’m a liar,’ Mosk breathed. ‘I’m _still_ lying. There are things I’ll never tell you! Ever! So you should just leave!’ 
> 
> The grip on his wrists tightened until he felt the bones shift. Pain rocketed up his arms, but he still felt something in him uncoil, unwind. Even though it hurt, he sagged backwards, Eran leaned into him, stared down at him. 
> 
> ‘Maybe,’ Eran said, shifting his grip on Mosk’s forearm, tightening it in a way that had Mosk wincing, ‘you could look outside of yourself for five seconds and be compassionate, instead of shoving me away just because it’s hard for you. It’s hard for me too!’ 
> 
> ‘It’s not hard,’ Mosk snarled. ‘I saw you dancing. I _saw_ you. Like it’s hard for you, when you dance like that!’


	12. A Liar and the Truth

_Mosk_

*

The clouds swirled overhead. Something was controlling the storms in the same way Aur dryads could grow things in the Aur forest. Mosk stared up at the inverted whirlwind of angry screaming winds above him, his mouth open, even as a member of the Mantissa’s crew tried to shoo him away. Beyond the shrieking of the storm itself, a repeated angry chorus sounded.

_‘…Howlaa howlaaaaa…’_

An agony of voices, but Mosk couldn’t see who was making them, and they sounded as loud as the skies themselves. Thunder sometimes drowned them out, but never for long. Waves pitched the ship back and forth. One was tall enough that Mosk shouted, snapping back to reality as he ran for the other side of the Mantissa, shocked by the beastly, hungry water reaching out like it wanted to devour him.

He was grabbed by the collar of his shirt and lifted easily.

‘You don’t belong up here,’ a fae said as Mosk twisted to look at her, dangling in her grip, half-choking. ‘It’s too dangerous! Get below!’

She ran, opening the door into one of the below-deck areas, shoving him in just as the wave crashed over her and poured down the stairs, sluicing over Mosk’s feet. Her fins opened wide, her human-form eyes turned to blank, opaque fish eyes, and she looked towards the storm with bared teeth.

When she turned back, she shouted something vicious in a language that was never supposed to be heard in the air.

He turned and ran, his feet splashing in salt water even as the ship listed dangerously. He’d stayed out for too long. Gwyn had been going about warning people, Mosk had wanted to see the storms, wanted to be near all that rising energy, prickling electric and alive over his skin.

Now, he ran through shadowed corridors, strangely senseless without the storm and wind and ocean to hear and feel. The ship insulated, pretended at safety, but it was leaning at such an angle that Mosk had an arm out as he ran, skimming his fingers along the wall in case he was slammed into it.

He ran down a staircase, another where he nearly ran into two sea fae who were sprinting up the stairs past him, looks of alarm on their faces. Mosk gulped, finding his way to the corridor of his room, nearly making it to the door before something happened to the Mantissa and he pitched forwards instead of sideways, sliding several feet along the floor. He pushed himself up on all fours, then upright, feeling like water should be pouring in around him. He saw none.

When he went into his room, he saw Eran already there, clutching at the wall where he’d been thrown, between Mosk’s bed and a chest of drawers.

‘What are you doing here?’ Mosk shouted, annoyed, scared, not liking the wide look of fear in Eran’s eyes or the thought that maybe he’d come here to see if Mosk was _okay._ Or worse, for safety.

‘What’s happening?’ Eran said, looking up. ‘Gwyn said it was a storm but this isn’t like a storm!’

‘It’s fae-made,’ Mosk said, closing the door and wishing that he could close Eran outside of it. His heart thumped too hard, a sickening pulse in his chest. Eran was the beautiful dancer, Eran didn’t belong in Mosk’s room. What if he’d seen the shell making its moss? Mosk turned to look at the drawer, cringing when he saw it had slid open. He slammed it closed. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I was waiting for you,’ Eran said, clammy and staring up at the ceiling in terror, and Mosk’s chest twinged. He didn’t look like he’d looked while dancing. Mosk didn’t like it.

‘It’s okay,’ Mosk said, even as the ship listed drunkenly again. ‘It’s…probably the House of Atros pulling us into their territory. Gwyn said it was possible, remember? I just didn’t know it would be like this. Even the Raven Prince said it was the House of Atros. He’d know.’

‘Are they killing us?’

‘No,’ Mosk said. ‘I hope not. Why were you waiting for me?’

‘We…’ Eran hiccuped and covered his mouth, then slid down to the floor. The ship shuddered, the crazy listing stopped, but Mosk could feel a strange pull in his veins, like they were being moved. Like something had wrapped giant hands around the Mantissa and was shoving her along, dragging her anchor along the sea floor. ‘You’re- You’re not wearing the rope.’

Mosk hid his wrist behind his back and felt stupid. He didn’t know what to say. It was hard to insult Eran, seeing him sick and scared. He kept his back to the chest of drawers and wished he was back in the crow’s nest, looking down upon the world.

‘I’m a liar,’ Mosk said, finally. ‘I’m Unseelie.’

‘I know,’ Eran said, closing his eyes, pushing himself upright and reaching a hand out to Mosk. ‘Come here, please?’

He sounded a little calmer, and Mosk shook his head, hanging onto the wretched feeling that made his hands shake. He had to remember it, because Eran would tell him kindnesses and then send him away again, because Mosk would never be good enough for him. Eran was born noble, he was heroic, he was all the things Mosk wanted only because Mosk knew he wasn’t supposed to have them.

‘Go back to your room,’ Mosk said. ‘Go there!’

‘Come here,’ Eran said, two of his fingers beckoning him. ‘Don’t leave me alone during this storm. Please.’

‘Stop it,’ Mosk said, and Eran tilted his head, looking vulnerable, scared and calm all at once, and Mosk hated him all over again. Hated the memory of Eran’s hands on his skin and Eran’s cock inside of him and Eran’s breath gusting hot and wicked against him. Hated Eran telling him that he was so many good things, only for Mosk to undo everything in the same evening, the same _hour._ ‘Get out!’

‘Mosk,’ Eran said, staring at him. ‘Please come here.’

‘Get out!’ Mosk shouted, pressing back harder into the chest of drawers. ‘I don’t want to hear you tell me I’m bad! Get out! The sea trows will comfort you. Anyone else would do it. I don’t want to!’

The closet door behind him swung open as the ship began to pitch again, clothing falling from it, and Mosk twisted his body and wrenched himself into the dark space and yanked the closet door shut behind him and felt like a fool. He couldn’t believe how he was behaving. Eran made him so stupid.

A moment later, the door opened and Eran pressed inside, pulling the door closed, locking them into darkness. Mosk struggled briefly, trying to kick him out, then bit down hard on a forearm when Eran captured his wrists and pressed him back into pants and long coats and the wood of the ship.

‘Stop it,’ Eran managed, out of breath. ‘Stop it!’

Mosk opened his mouth only to clamp down again, harder than before. He felt skin begin to break, but the pressure against his feeding teeth was too much and he yanked back, crying out. He felt it all the way down the long root canals of his teeth, into his throat. A pain reminiscent of wires stabbing into him.

‘Did you hurt yourself?’ Eran said.

‘Get out,’ Mosk begged.

‘I’m sorry,’ Eran said. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you so upset. I’m not going to tell you that you’re bad.’

‘I’m a liar,’ Mosk breathed. ‘I’m _still_ lying. There are things I’ll _never_ tell you! Ever! So you should just leave!’

The grip on his wrists tightened until he felt the bones shift. Pain rocketed up his arms, but he still felt something in him uncoil, unwind. Even though it hurt, he sagged backwards, Eran leaned into him, stared down at him.

‘Maybe,’ Eran said, shifting his grip on Mosk’s forearm, tightening it in a way that had Mosk wincing, ‘you could look outside of yourself for five seconds and be compassionate, instead of shoving me away just because it’s hard for you. It’s hard for me too!’

‘It’s not hard,’ Mosk snarled. ‘I saw you dancing. I _saw_ you. Like it’s hard for you, when you dance like that!’

Eran stared at him for a long time, both of them breathing hard in the darkness of the closet, clothing brushing their bodies, the ship still listing. Mosk expected Eran to let him go.

‘Like it’s hard for you,’ Eran said, ‘when you forget about me, every time you talk to the Raven Prince.’

Eran shoved Mosk’s arms down, then dropped onto him. Mosk’s eyes flew open when Eran’s mouth crashed into his. It was painful, and he screeched into teeth and lips and tried to bite only to get a mouthful of smoke on his next inhale. It scored his throat, his lungs, and he screamed, struggling anew, and Eran was too strong, bracketing Mosk’s thighs with his own, pressing him down.

The smoke reminded him of the forest, his family, _breathing them in._ Olphix’s voice wound into him, calm but unforgiving, and the smoke streamed into his lungs and he twisted back and forth tasting charcoal, ash, burnt wood.

_The taste of Eran last time, when he kissed you._

Then he was coughing, Eran drawing back just enough that Mosk could twist to the side and hack the heat of it out of his lungs.

‘Are you done?’ Eran said. He sounded angry. Mosk had no idea what he was referring to.

‘I’m allowed to be mad,’ Mosk said.

‘So am I.’

‘But-’

‘Open your mouth.’

_‘No,’_ Mosk said weakly, forcing his lips shut.

‘If you don’t, I’ll breathe it into your nose, and you _really_ won’t like that. Open your mouth, Mosk.’

Mosk shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut. Eran was using _that_ voice, Eran sounded disappointed and angry and scared and he must have hated the way the ship was moving. But Mosk hated it all too. He kept his eyes shut even as he opened his mouth the slightest amount. Eran must have seen it in the dark.

‘Breathe it in,’ Eran said, forbidding and awful, before his lips met Mosk’s.

Mosk held his breath, waiting it out. His chest got tighter and tighter as Eran didn’t breathe the smoke into his mouth, and he refused to open his eyes. He couldn’t wait out Eran.

He breathed in, the smoke following straight away. It made his lungs spasm, he whimpered and then coughed it up, Eran giving him space to do so. It was hot and thick in his mouth and throat, swirling into him, tasting of charcoal and of Eran. He felt weak.

‘Again,’ Eran said, his voice shaking.

‘I _can’t_ ,’ Mosk said.

Eran was already leaning down and Mosk’s chest was still heaving, trying to catch his breath. On the next sharp inhale, a cloud of smoke was forced into him and he keened softly, kicking his ankles down into the closet. It burned. His wrists and hands went limp. Eran gave him space to cough and Mosk heard himself sob once, sagging backwards, his chest hurting, jabs of pain sparking.

When Eran let go of one of his wrists to rub circles into his chest, Mosk heard himself sob again and tried to twist away. Eran didn’t let him.

‘Why…?’ Mosk’s voice was a mess. ‘Why would you do that?’

The hand rubbing circles into his chest was warm and firm, Mosk was broken apart underneath it and everything else Eran had done. He could taste a burnt forest in his mouth, it hurt to breathe, he didn’t think Eran had damaged him, but even his muscles ached after what Eran had done.

‘Why did you remove the rope?’ Eran said, staring at him, both of them awkwardly shoved up against one side of the closet. Mosk closed his eyes and looked away, Eran grasped his chin with his fingers and pulled his face back. But Mosk still refused to look at him. ‘Why, Mosk?’

‘You’re mean,’ Mosk said, his voice quavering.

‘I know,’ Eran said. ‘Why did you remove the rope? Why did you _hide_ from me? Do you think, for once, I’d be allowed to get upset at something – you _lying_ to me – without you behaving like it’s the end of the world? Without you forcing me to have to comfort you out of your own…whatever this is?’

‘I can’t answer all of that, it’s too many questions,’ Mosk said, definitely not wanting to answer Eran now. He’d felt awful before, he felt worse now. He couldn’t even be bad at things in the right way. He failed at everything.

‘Okay,’ Eran said, taking a deep breath. He dug his fingers into Mosk’s chest. ‘Why did you remove the rope from your wrist?’

‘I don’t want to tell you,’ Mosk said.

‘Tell me.’

Mosk jerked his chin out of Eran’s grip. It was ridiculous, both of them in a wardrobe together. He didn’t want to lay himself bare for Eran, it wasn’t fair.

‘I’m a liar,’ Mosk said finally.

‘Okay, tell me why that made you remove the rope from your wrist.’

‘Liars don’t get ropes,’ Mosk said.

He barely understood it himself. A source of comfort that he got to wear on his own body, he only knew that once Eran had kicked him out of his room after the night they’d spent together, he didn’t get that comfort anymore.

‘I’m not good,’ Mosk said, staring off into darkness, hoping that Eran couldn’t see his expression.

Eran’s hand paused on Mosk’s chest, then he dropped his head to Mosk’s collarbone heavily, his forehead pushing down. Mosk stayed still, feeling like his hands had been bound even though they hadn’t been.

‘You took the rope off your wrist because you don’t think you’re good enough for it?’ Eran said.

‘I’m always going to be a liar,’ Mosk said, laughing darkly. ‘When Mamatree told me to learn a weapon to kill Olphix, I lied to everyone and pretended to be a good pacifist Aur dryad. When Mamatree told me to stop training with the bow and give myself up to Olphix, I learned how to lie to Mamatree and Papatree, all my siblings. I’m not going to stop lying now, just because it hurts you. I’m never going to be good.’

Mosk lifted a hand, unsure what he wanted to do with it, so he dropped it back to a rumpled coat that had fallen beneath them.

‘I thought you were upset,’ Mosk said, ‘I stayed away because I didn’t want to upset you more. What am I supposed to do? What was right? Why would someone like me know it? And I made a liar out of you, too, and I know I did, it’s so stupid. I can’t do that to someone like you.’

Eran lifted and looked down at him at those words, and Mosk laughed again, his voice dark and quiet.

‘You said all those things,’ Mosk said. ‘Those nice things. But then you found out that none of them are true. It’s just one of those things in the moment that feels okay, and then later it’s bad because it made a liar out of you.’

‘What?’ Eran said. ‘Wait-’

‘I’m not soft, or c-caring, or-or-’

‘No, Mosk, wait a-’

‘And now you’re going to feel bad,’ Mosk said, lifting his hand and weakly trying to push Eran away, even though he desperately needed Eran’s hand on his chest. ‘Now you’re going to feel bad because I’m saying all of this because you’re too nice to tell me it’s true.’

‘Mosk, I’m _Seelie.’_

‘So?’

‘I’m not the kind of Seelie that can really lie,’ Eran said. ‘I meant all of it.’

‘But not now? I get it. The thing with Davix and not telling you, I knew it was bad. I knew from the beginning it’d hurt you. It’d ruin things. I knew. Why would you want to be near me if you knew I was seeing him? His ice is why your family is dead.’

‘By Kabiri, I don’t like it when you try and reason with me like this. You have to _stop._ Just. Stop talking.’

Mosk said nothing, it was easy, the despair had eaten a hole inside of him. He was a tree with rotten heartwood.

‘Mosk,’ Eran said slowly, ‘you are good enough to wear the rope on your wrist all the time, okay? Even when I’m mad at you.’

Mosk opened his mouth, and the hand at his chest moved up and rested there instead, a palm warm and dry against Mosk’s damp lips.

‘I know you don’t believe me,’ Eran said. ‘It must be hard not to be able to take what I say for granted, but I can’t lie about this. I can tell versions of the truth, but if I say you’re good enough to wear it, that means you are! You are to me! Even if you think you’re the worst person, or…are so upset at how you acted or how upset I got, that _you_ don’t think you’re worth it. I never thought that.’

Eran’s thumb brushed carefully across Mosk’s cheek, and he shivered. Olphix had done things like that, but Eran only did it once.

‘So you’re upset you lied to me,’ Eran said. Mosk risked nodding. Of course he was upset. ‘And you’ve been upset since the first dream with Davix, is that why you kept trying to push me away?’

Mosk nodded again.

‘So you’ve been really alone with this,’ Eran said pensively into the strong, insulated silence. ‘Alone, lying, and knowing I wouldn’t like it when I found out.’

The muscles in Mosk’s body tensed. Eran didn’t say anything for a long time, and Mosk’s back slowly relaxed, he felt exhausted. But being close to Eran like this was better than it had been for over a day. He didn’t even wince when Eran absently stroked his cheek again.

‘And you’re still lying to me,’ Eran said finally.

Mosk forced himself to nod, thinking of his ability to grow things, the golden mistletoe the Raven Prince had asked him to make out of nothing, the moss on the shell. Gwyn knew now. The Raven Prince had always known. It was unfair that Eran didn’t know, but something about it filled Mosk with so much horror.

But what would Eran do if he knew?

Taking a slow breath through his nostrils, Mosk reached up and tapped Eran’s hand over his mouth with the tip of his index finger. Eran lifted his hand carefully, and Mosk hesitated, then ran his hand along the wood of the door.

What would Eran do?

‘Can you…make a light?’ Mosk said. ‘That doesn’t burn things?’

‘Not…easily,’ Eran said, his voice hushed. ‘I’ll have to be careful. Where do you want it?’

‘Can you light where my hand is on the door?’

‘Okay,’ Eran said, confused, but listening anyway. Mosk hissed helplessly when he saw the tiny, white flame that Eran made. Its light was almost cold, and Eran’s eyes were narrowed in concentration. The flame made a lot of light, Mosk could see the outline of his own fingers against the door, the bony knuckles and too-long digits. He’d never liked his hands. Chaley had short, round fingers. They’d been so nice and warm.

Mosk stared at the wood, hardly having to concentrate at all. Lichen spread out from his fingertip. Then, the branch of a willow began to sprout as the flame shook in Eran’s hand and light flickered around them.

‘It’s not normal,’ Mosk said, his voice shaking like the flame at the tip of Eran’s finger. He stared at the lissom willow leaves emerging and thought of the Raven Prince saying that he would take the golden mistletoe through its entire life cycle if he wasn’t careful. ‘It’s not normal at all. I can’t control it properly. I’m…scared of it.’

‘What is it?’

‘Willow and lichen,’ Mosk said. His voice dropped until it was an undertone. ‘I think I could grow anything.’

‘Anything?’

‘It…can’t live.’ Mosk drew his hand away from the door. ‘There’s nowhere for the roots to grow. There’s no light. It’s horrible. I can’t even hear them.’

Eran pushed his glowing fingertip to the willow, the flame growing smaller as he looked at the perfect willow twig, the mature and nascent leaves.

‘You were lying about being able to do this? How long for?’

‘…Since the ship,’ Mosk said, his voice breaking. ‘Since the first night. Not like this. At first it was just…moss. It’s bad.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t _know_ ,’ Mosk said, reaching up and ripping the branch from the door. ‘It just is! Put the light out. I don’t want to see it.’

The flame vanished, all Mosk could see was the dancing of a hundred tiny flames in front of his eyes, in almost total darkness. Then the glow of Eran’s amber eyes drew his attention and he tried to focus on those instead of the ghost lights.

‘That’s the other thing,’ Mosk said. ‘The other big thing.’

‘You mean…the thing you were lying about?’

‘Uh huh,’ Mosk said, using the side of his hand rub off the lichen too. Even now, the plants listened to him, the lichen letting go at his wish instead of clinging permanently like it could to rocks and the trunks of great trees. ‘There’s other things too, probably, I lie about everything. I can’t keep track. But those two things. Eran, those two things…’

Eran seemed to relax against him, then he tipped to the side until he was alongside him, and Mosk thought maybe they could hide from the storm and the world in this closet forever. Eran didn’t seem as mad at him now. Mosk wanted to sleep, his relief was so profound. His eyes adjusted to the dimness once more, he loved the outline of Eran’s eyelashes against his own glowing eyes. It was the prettiest thing Mosk had ever seen, and he’d seen so many flowers.

‘I have two things as well,’ Eran said. ‘But they’re not lies.’

He reached around awkwardly, pulling something out of his pants pocket. Mosk’s eyes widened when he saw the length of rope, then despite everything, he laughed.

‘I know,’ Eran said, a smile in his voice. ‘But it’s not right. You have to keep wearing this for me, even when I’m mad at you. Okay? The only time you’re allowed to take it off from now on, is if I tell you to. That’s the only reason. Say it back to me, and give me your wrist.’

Mosk lifted his wrist, and Eran grunted into a kneeling position so he could loop the rope around Mosk’s wrist.

‘Say it, Mosk.’

‘You’re… I’m- I can only take it off if you tell me to.’

‘Good,’ Eran said. ‘I’m going to tie this a little tighter than normal. Maybe you forgot that I put this on you and I’m the one who gets to take it off.’

‘Really?’ Mosk said, then cringed. He’d sounded so needy. Eran would hate it.

‘Really,’ Eran said. ‘I’ll be really mad if you take it off again. If you need it retied, you come to me. If you need it moved to your other wrist, you come to me. Even if I’m upset with you, I will never take this away from you. Ever.’

He tightened his hand around the fastening, gripping Mosk’s wrist tightly.

‘It’s unfair,’ Mosk said, hoarse.

‘What is?’

‘You’re so good,’ Mosk said. ‘It’s not just that you’re Seelie. It’s not just… You’re too good. I’ve never seen someone dance like you. Maybe you don’t know that you could have anyone on the Mantissa? Maybe you feel stuck with me? Or indebted? Or like…I don’t know. Eran, you could have _anyone._ You could have-’

Eran dropped his head down, still holding Mosk’s wrist up by the rope fastened around it. He pressed his lips to Mosk’s. When Mosk inhaled, he expected it, the thin stream of hot smoke that curled down his throat and tightened his muscles, pushed into his lungs and made them want to compress. His body hitched and Eran didn’t move back, keeping his lips there, breathing smoke into him until Mosk’s eyes squeezed shut and his fingers curled.

Only when Mosk was shaking, did he move backwards. Mosk’s eyes were wet and he felt like his whole head was too hot and he tried not to cough messily but couldn’t help it.

‘Someone too good wouldn’t like doing that to you,’ Eran said, his voice rough as he rubbed Mosk’s chest with his other hand. ‘There, it’s okay. You did really well. It’s okay.’

‘It _hurts_ ,’ Mosk said, plaintive.

‘Until I can kiss you all the ways that I want to, I’ll kiss you like that. Because it’s not gentle at all, is it? But I’d do it to you every day if you let me.’

‘I…,’ Mosk said, afraid that he’d let him.

‘I think the ship’s settled,’ Eran said. ‘Which is good, because we need light for the next part. Hang on.’

He pushed up, opened the knob of the closet door, and the light that flooded in had Mosk flinching back from it. Even Eran jerked like he was startled, before laughing ruefully. He reached into his pocket.  

Mosk still had his eyes closed when he felt something small and cold pressed into his palm. For a moment he thought it was the shell the verkhwin had given him. But as Eran withdrew his fingers, Mosk felt that the shape of it was different.

‘That’s the second thing,’ Eran said.

Mosk shifted it in his hand until he could hold it between his thumb and forefinger. He blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the light and lifted whatever it was until he could see the creamy translucent stone. As the blurriness faded and he turned the thin disk of whatever gem it was, he gasped when he saw a carved oak leaf flash blue-green, a tiny marvel. He tilted it back and forth, staring at it in shock.

‘Do you like it?’ Eran said. ‘It’s opal.’

‘Is it?’ Mosk said, staring.

‘I couldn’t find anything I liked enough for you,’ Eran said. ‘Not exactly. But that came close.’

‘You…bought this for me?’ Mosk said, eyes darting to Eran quickly before moving back to the stone. ‘It’s an oak leaf. Did you find this at the market? You got this for me, really?’

‘Yes,’ Eran said, staring down at him with a warm smile in his eyes. ‘You like it?’

‘You got me something,’ Mosk breathed. ‘Even when you were mad.’

‘Yes,’ Eran said again, laughing. ‘Do you like it?’

Mosk tucked it away into his fingers and clasped it tight, before bringing it back down to his chest. It was warm from where it had rested in Eran’s pocket.

‘Yeah,’ Mosk said. ‘You got me something.’

‘You’re…not used to it?’

‘No,’ Mosk said, clenching his hand around the stone with its oak leaf. It was so pretty. He imagined Eran looking at different stones, picking something out, how did he find a stone oak leaf out on the ocean? ‘I didn’t get you anything. Eran, I didn’t-’

‘Maybe one day you’ll get me something,’ Eran said. ‘But today you told me the truth about something that scared you, and I still think you’re good. Soft and caring. Witty and determined.’

‘Maybe,’ Mosk said softly.

‘Maybe,’ Eran said, pulling closer. ‘Thank you for helping me through the storm.’

Mosk didn’t think that he’d done anything at all – it was just Eran being far too nice to him – but he lay there thinking that things weren’t as dire as they’d seemed a while ago. He closed his eyes, glad for the rope around his wrist, a little oak leaf in his palm.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter, 'The Glory of the House of Atros:' 
> 
> ‘I say it and I say it,’ Davix muttered. ‘He never hears me.’
> 
> ‘Good!’ Mosk said, pushing himself up and staring at Davix. ‘Good! I hope he never hears you again. I hope, when I kill him, you both never hear each other again.’ 
> 
> Davix’s eyes widened, his limber pose pulling in. ‘Repeat that.’ 
> 
> ‘I hope you have a good memory of his voice, I bet you do, because I can remember Chaley and I can remember Mallem and _all_ of them. But that’s all you’re ever going to have, like me! I hope his voice fades and fades, until you have nothing. Until your stupid ghost mind reaches for him and you find nothing but stupid pretty words and emptiness.’ 
> 
> Mosk walked forwards, unaware of his own body. He grabbed Davix’s shoulder and he turned his rage outwards and then Davix gasped and _shouted._
> 
> Thin twigs and vines sprouted from Davix’s shoulder, through his clothing, whipping upwards and growing leaves and nodes for flowers even as Mosk stumbled backwards and Davix stood and ripped away what Mosk had grown.


	13. The Glory of the House of Atros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character of Stertes was once found in a very old Fae Tales AU called [Salt Water.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046268) It is SO good to be able to officially bring him into the canon after all this time.
> 
> New tag: Breathplay (as we move into pretty intense territory here).

_Mosk_

*

When the ship finally settled, Eran and Mosk crawled out of the cupboard. The blankets had slid off Mosk’s bed, clothing was on the floor, but the actual furniture had stayed in place. Mosk looked at the piece of opal in the better light, the flash of green in the shape of an oak leaf reminding him of his Mamatree. He tilted it back and forth, back and forth, only stopping when he saw Eran watching him, a smile on his face.

After a moment, Mosk opened the drawer with the shell and stared down at the moss that had clumped all across the wood. He picked up a ball of moss and began breaking it apart to get at the shell underneath, before handing it to Eran.

‘See?’ Mosk said, indicating the drawer. ‘It doesn’t stop. I mean sometimes it stops. I hate it.’

Eran walked over and stared in amazement, then looked down at the shell. Moss was already creeping along it, even while Eran held it. Mosk didn’t know anyone capable of something like this.

‘You just grow things?’ Eran said.

‘I’m not controlling that,’ Mosk said. ‘It doesn’t even feel like it’s coming from me. Maybe it’s not! I don’t know.’

‘Could you grow the Aur forest back with something like this?’ Eran said, staring at him.

Mosk truly thought about it for the first time since he’d dismissed Eran’s suggestion weeks ago. But as he looked at the shell creeping with moss and setae, he sighed.

‘I could maybe grow a forest,’ Mosk said. ‘But every tree? I haven’t met every tree. The Aur forest was so much more than me, it was like living…in a god. It was its own realm, folded into space and time, where trees would live eternally, and never fail. If I could be wrong about anything, I would want to be wrong about this. I wish I could make it.’

‘I believe you,’ Eran said. Eran looked up at the ceiling, and Mosk noticed his face was greyer than usual.

‘Do you want to go up and see if things are better now?’ Mosk said.

His chest still ached from the smoke Eran had breathed into him. Thinking of it made him feel weak. He hadn’t liked it, but it had done something to him all the same, to be made to surrender like that. He looked down at the rope around his wrist, felt a band around his heart. Already, he felt calmer than before.

‘Will you come up with me?’ Eran said.

‘I’m surprised you want me there,’ Mosk said. ‘Look, I… I know how I am. I mean, I can tell. I make everything difficult for you. You seem like someone who would think that’s because of what the Mages did to me, but I think I was always this way.’ Mosk smiled wryly as he looked down. ‘I was always this way. I threw tantrums. I sulked. No one stopped me. They just ignored me when it got bad.’

‘They went and lived their lives,’ Eran said. Then his breath caught loudly enough that Mosk heard it. ‘They probably… By Kabiri, no, I don’t want to think about that.’

‘About what?’

‘Do you think maybe they didn’t correct you, or say anything, because they knew you wouldn’t stay with them for much longer?’

Mosk shrugged. Chaley sometimes talked to him about it, but she’d always been so loving and gentle that it was easier to be open with her and apologise. Maybe she could have helped him be a better, kinder person, but he was already trying to be that for her, and maybe she didn’t have the heart to be firmer about it.

Once, a tiny thing, his family in the home, and Leaf was telling a story to his brothers while forgetting Mosk was there too. Leaf said:

‘And here we all are, the Manytrees brothers…’ He’d gestured to the others and excluded Mosk, and Mosk had stood and stared at Leaf, daring him to acknowledge it. It was a bold thing to do. Leaf was the custodian of stories, the weaver of tales, and to challenge him was rude, but Mosk thought he’d been rude first.

‘Yes?’ Mallem had said, back then cruel and charismatic, now nothing more than smoke and ash and char.

‘I’m a brother too. You didn’t include me,’ Mosk said, voice small, while his Papatree turned away and his Mamatree watched with something sad and silent in her eyes. Chaley wasn’t there, she would have been so angry if she’d been there.

‘A _proper_ member of the family would know not to interrupt Leaf while he was telling a story,’ Mallem said, folding his arms. ‘It’s like deep down you know what you’re supposed to be already. Go away. Don’t you have some tree you’re meant to be climbing? Go do that. Bother the squirrels.’

Mosk stood there, looking to his Mamatree – who wouldn’t meet his eyes – and not even bothering to look at his Papatree. Leaf was staring at the tree in the centre of the living area, pretending nothing was happening. Mosk kicked the table his parents were sitting at and they didn’t even flinch. It was like he was invisible. He kicked the table again, Mallem sighed.

‘It’s honestly good, I think, that you don’t have any of your magic yet?’ he said. ‘Because imagine what a pain you’d be if you did. No wonder you’re a gift for a debt. Maybe the Mage hasn’t come to get you yet because he visited and saw your personality and realised he’d made a mistake.’

Mallem laughed, and their Mamatree made a faint, quiet sound of censure in her throat. It was tiny, but it was enough to stop Mallem completely. He fell silent, but his resentment was still bright in his golden eyes.

‘Go away, _baby_ ,’ Mallem said, when no one else spoke. ‘Go grow up.’

Mosk stood there, looking at all of them. Then he’d turned and walked out, only to hear Mallem muttering ‘finally.’ His Papatree had spoken, but Mosk didn’t stay to hear it. He walked from the house, walked down the trail, then he’d sprinted until he could climb a tree far from them all and get his recurve bow and practice shooting leaves until his arms burned as much as his face did.

‘Sometimes I’m going to be angry at you,’ Eran said, cutting into his thoughts. Mosk looked up, feeling like he was leaving that memory only slowly, sluggish grief pouring through him like cloudy sap, leaking into his heartwood. ‘But that doesn’t mean I want you to hide from me. Or leave. It just means I’m angry. I’m- Back…home, anger was just normal. Another feeling. It just meant something had become imbalanced. Sometimes anger is something I have to fix myself. Sometimes I have to wait it out. And sometimes it’s because of something you and I need to talk about. When I sent you away that night, I just wanted a moment…I didn’t think about how it would impact you, to be sent away immediately after what we’d done.’

‘I was fine,’ Mosk said.

‘You weren’t,’ Eran said, face creasing.

‘You’re Seelie, and liars are bad. Or not- Not what you’re meant to… You’re not meant to be around liars.’

‘Firstly,’ Eran said quietly, but fiercely, ‘my father was Unseelie. So while lying is jarring and hard for me, I know what it is to live with Unseelie fae. Secondly, you make me feel like I’m not trustworthy, and I don’t like that! I think I am trustworthy. I know you’re afraid I’m going to tell Gwyn things, but I only tell him things when I think it’s really important, Mosk. Not to hurt you. By all the fires, I don’t know, I hated not being able to take you through the markets with me. But you saw me dancing, didn’t you? Did you like it?’

‘Yeah,’ Mosk said, his voice drying up in his throat. ‘Uh huh.’

‘Maybe, if you want, you could learn some steps and dance with me.’

Mosk stared at him. It was strange the way Eran tried to involve him in things. Tried to get him to go up above the ship with him, said he wanted him at the markets. But Eran always looked excited, or at least eager when he spoke about such things. Mosk knew he would always be a little flake of nothing against Eran, like a piece of bark stuck to a mighty tree, but the dancing looked joyful, and Mosk wanted to know what that felt like.

‘Maybe,’ Mosk whispered. ‘But do you think we should go up?’

After a moment of Eran looking up at the ceiling again, he nodded, then reached out and took the lead of rope hanging from Mosk’s wrist automatically. It was so familiar that something settled deep down in Mosk’s chest, the tight pain that had been there faded into an ache that was hardly noticeable. Together, they went up to see what new world the storm had brought.

*

Seawater pooled along the last corridor as they walked up the wet stairs. When Mosk opened the door, he was surprised at how dim it was, the clouds above them almost black. Eran gasped when he looked around, but Mosk kept walking forwards, deciding that whatever the storm had done, it wasn’t doing it now.

The ship was idling, some of her lilac sails torn. Everything was wet and gleamed like the sides of darker fish that swum in the murk. Where Mosk expected wild winds, it was unusually still. Quiet enough that Mosk could hear orders and commands being shouted in the distance, Awan’s voice echoing over the wet wood, clinging to the ropes and sails.

‘This way,’ Mosk said. He ended up leading Eran by the rope at his own wrist.

A small crowd gathered around the huge circular port-holes cut deep into the ship. Water sloshed in both. Mosk found his way over to Gwyn and Ondine, surprised that Ash wasn’t there. Maybe he was taking care of Augus. Mosk hadn’t seen Augus once since the Raven Prince had joined them on the ship, he didn’t know what to think, but he was a little relieved because Augus scared him more than the Raven Prince did.

‘It is the House of Atros,’ Gwyn said grimly. ‘We await their entrance, to see who is representing them today.’

‘It will be Tanares or Stertes,’ Ondine said, watching as the water in the port-hole moved tumultuously back and forth. ‘I’ll be having words about their treatment of the Mantissa.’

Mosk looked up towards the tallest crow’s nest, but couldn’t see any sign of the Raven Prince.

The air around them was too still. The ship didn’t even feel like it was slowly rocking anymore. Mosk wanted to look over the wet, dripping edge of the rail to see if fae had made it so that the sea was flat. From where he stood, he could only see the sea beyond. There were small waves, almost no swell.

The clouds above them were a deep charcoal. The glowing lights on the ship provided only mild relief in the strange, silvery twilight. Some had broken and were hanging after the way the Mantissa had been dragged from one territory into another. Mosk – looking closer now – could see bits of kelp and coral on the ship, as though something had dragged the bottom and tossed the brokenness upwards. As he watched, one of the crew of the Mantissa picked up a flopping fish and threw it overboard with a look of exasperation.

The large circular port-hole before them began to gleam with pale blue bits of light. Only here and there at first, then expanding until all the water was lit from within.

‘It’s Stertes,’ Ondine said quickly, staring hard at the brightness. ‘A note, if you’re unfamiliar, he is a merkhanwe – a drowner – and his innate ability can block anyone from shifting into their true form, or using the abilities associated with their true form. He has to consciously do it, but it is very easy for him. We have no interest in offending him, Gwyn. His whole family are powerful for good reasons, they are not a lazy nor weak House.’

‘I understand,’ Gwyn said.

‘You’re probably the only one of us currently at something of an advantage,’ Ondine said. ‘You don’t have your light for him to block.’

‘That’s how I’m choosing to see it.’

First, thirteen warrior mer-fae shot up in unison, their tails powering them upwards, spears in their hands. They looked around the ship audience, helmets made from some deep blue metal, fins flaring deeply at their necks and the sides of their heads. Then they crossed their spears together and lowered them beneath the water. A moment later, they rose above the seawater, shifting into human form, walking across the waves without sinking until they were on the deck.

They formed a stern row, saying nothing, waiting and watching the port-hole. Their spears held by their sides.

After that, seahorse shifters. Mosk only knew them because he’d seen them when they’d visited to use their powers on Augus and Ash to help them with saltwater poisoning. These ones were far prettier, even in human form they had long, pale green growths emerging from their heads, their sides, even their wrists and ankles. With their sheer, grass green robes, they looked like the prettiest form of seaweed come to life. Their eyes were unusually round, they seemed much gentler than the warriors. The four of them stood quietly, each clasping their hands, waiting.

After that, at least seven more fae, these emerging individually. Some shifted into human form after looking above the waterline and assessing their environment, some emerged already shifted. Only one bowed deeply to Ondine, and Ondine lifted her head in brief acknowledgement.

Once the retinue arrived in full, the fae who must have been Stertes appeared first in his true form. The bloom of a huge, silken fish tail of many fins, the palest of blue, his lower half gleaming in the same blues, whites, creams and pinks. But then he pushed up out of the water – presumably with his own power – and walked towards Ondine in human form.

Mosk couldn’t recall having seen a fae so violently beautiful. Eran was striking, but his beauty was engaging, even though his gaze could be so incisive. Everything about Stertes was cold and brutally handsome. From the cut of his cheekbones, to his hooded aquamarine eyes that seemed to see everything even though they stayed fixed on Ondine. His hair was a strange translucent blue that fell in waves about a mouth that could almost be called slack or soft, except that it was on his face, so it looked disapproving instead.

But then he reached Ondine and the glimmer of a smile moved across his features, and it changed everything. Mosk heard Eran’s breath catch and knew he’d noticed it too.

‘My dear Ondine, it is so lovely to see you at last taking the time to visit the House of Atros.’

He took her hand and cupped it in his own, a greeting between peers, where almost everyone else treated Ondine like royalty.

Another of Stertes’ retinue walked forwards, a woman with curling spires of shell growing from her head, her eyes appeared as though they were made of stone.

‘I present to Ondine, Prophet of the Seas, Captain of the Mantissa, our Glory of the House of Atros, Stertes, nephew of Turus, Ruler of the House of Atros.’

‘Yeah,’ Ondine said, sighing. ‘Come on, Stertes. Really? Don’t pretend you didn’t drag us here. Like, make a pretence at honesty at least.’

Stertes’ gaze moved swiftly to Gwyn’s, and then he took in the rest of the crew in a sweep. He nodded in a businesslike manner, his smile disappearing. Mosk edged closer to Eran, not liking how these powerful people dealt with each other, like they all had razors in their souls waiting to come out at the slightest provocation.

‘Then don’t pretend you haven’t been avoiding us,’ Stertes said, his deeper blue eyebrows lifting. He spoke like a courtier, his accent crisp. ‘Truly, it’s almost as though the House of Atros has somehow slighted you. Have we ever? I think not. And now you travel with the Unseelie King yet have not visited Unseelie territories where we might keep your ward safe? Your trust is as thin as fish spoor.’

‘That’s better,’ Ondine said. ‘Sort of, I guess. Is this a quick visit? Or…?’

‘Why, no, you’ll need a guide of course!’ Stertes said. Mosk noticed that his hands seemed to leak water, his feet too. ‘I have volunteered myself for this duty, only the best for the Mantissa, after all. I admit, I am rather curious to see what the fae realm’s largest warship looks like. She is a beauty, isn’t she? No wonder she’s so terrifying to those undertaking war. Ah, but her sails are torn. What a shame. Was that us? Dear me. I’ll see that fixed as soon as-’

‘Oh no, we’re not going to trouble the busy House of Atros with that,’ Ondine said. ‘We’ll mend our own sails, but the offer’s super appreciated. So I’ll make up the guest rooms for you and your team?’

‘That would be fine,’ Stertes said, waving a hand in something like acceptance and dismissal. ‘And the Unseelie King, lowering himself to finally visit the seas. How do you find them, Lord of the Unseelie Lands?’

‘Rude,’ Gwyn said.

Stertes blinked like he hadn’t expected the blunt response. But only a second passed and he recovered, smiling.

‘Perhaps you might forgive a little rudeness, we are not commonly visited by Land Kings. They do not deign to do it.’

‘And when they do, you seem to treat them with little respect anyway,’ Gwyn said. ‘For, presumably, if the House of Atros had anything like a capacity for respect, you would have approached the Mantissa fairly and found some cleverer way to trick us into your waters, instead of resorting to brute force.’

‘You and Ondine are both far too canny for our clever methods,’ Stertes said, his voice an attempt at humility, even though it obviously didn’t come easily to him. ‘But I’m afraid you’ve stayed too long away now, we grew impatient. Surely you did not mean to simply anchor down and never travel back to land? But this is so _crude_ of us. I would like to enjoy the Mantissa’s hospitality, such that it is, and I believe I should like to get to know those on the ship better. It is such a legendary ship after all.’

Stertes’ voice had quietened, no less dangerous for it. In the end, he didn’t look at Gwyn for acknowledgement, but Ondine. She must have given it, because Stertes turned and walked back to his party, and then started talking to them in one of the many sea languages Mosk couldn’t begin to understand.

Ondine sighed and said under her breath: ‘You couldn’t keep your shit together for five seconds, Gwyn?’

‘He’s an ass,’ Gwyn said. ‘Does he truly hold so much power in the seas?’

‘Yes,’ Ondine said. ‘So deal with it. There are few forces in this world that could do genuine harm to the Mantissa, but he’s one of them. Remember, he would barely need to exert his powers to stop the abilities of all of the fae keeping the Mantissa afloat in their tracks. He could sink us just by _willing_ it. Besides, I have a bon accord with Turus, and even though he’s a stuffy ruthless dick, I’d like to keep it. He’s not the only stuffy ruthless dick I know.’

Ondine patted Gwyn on the arm and then walked over to Stertes, smiling at him as Stertes turned to welcome her with an outstretched arm.

‘I’m in two minds about whether I like not being in charge all the time,’ Gwyn said eventually, before walking over to Stertes, Ondine, and the rest of the fae that had arrived with Stertes.

Fingers touched Mosk’s elbow, Eran’s hand curling around him. Mosk looked down at the touch, then across to Eran. His heart still fluttered whenever Eran did things like that. He wondered what it would be like, Eran teaching him to dance. If he’d laugh at Mosk’s clumsiness and lack of grace and give up on him. If he’d somehow make it fun despite Mosk being…who he was.

Just as Eran opened his mouth, Gwyn called them both over.

They went, Eran letting go of Mosk’s arm and Mosk trying not to feel the cold that was left behind. The wind wasn’t blowing. The ship too still. Mosk studied Stertes, who could stop all of their powers with a thought. Who brought a crew who could stop the seas and make the clouds forbidding. Could Stertes stop Mosk’s ability to grow things? Mosk tried to decide if that would be a relief or not.

‘This is Mosk Manytrees,’ Gwyn ap Nudd said, introducing him. ‘An Aur dryad with a connection to the events the world finds itself beset by.’

‘Well. I have heard of the Aur forest,’ Stertes said, eyes glittering now. ‘But that is a land forest, is it not? Does it grow every species of seaweed or kelp in the sea?’

‘Yeah. I mean, it did.’

Stertes looked surprised. ‘I would have thought the Aur forest only grew land trees.’

‘Why?’ Mosk said. ‘The Aur forest had every living plant in the world. That includes plants that grow in the water. Didn’t matter if it was fresh or salt.’

‘I see,’ Stertes said, and the smile on his face seemed genuinely warm. Mosk nodded and looked down, not knowing what else to say. He knew that sea fae had a complicated approach to royalty and rules of etiquette, he knew that Stertes was basically a prince, and a widely respected and feared one at that. He’d never met so many important people in his life.

‘And this,’ Gwyn said, ‘is Eran Iliakambar, afrit-ambaros, beloved of Kabiri.’

‘Those eyes are a marvel, aren’t they?’ Stertes said, tilting his head back towards his retinue, inviting them all to look closely at Eran, which they did. Eran shifted, didn’t seem to know what to say. ‘A fire fae on the sea. Even as we hear of more fire fae refugees than ever before, they don’t often come out onto the open ocean. But I suppose you’ve heard that many times already.’

Stertes turned and smiled at Gwyn.

‘Rumours abound that the Raven Prince is not only alive, but aboard the ship?’

‘Is he?’ Gwyn said, bored. ‘If you see him, tell him I’d like to talk.’

Stertes’ eyes narrowed.

‘I heard tell that you travelled with two waterhorses. Where are they? I should like to meet them.’

‘They’re both ill,’ Gwyn said. ‘The sea does them no favours.’

‘My seahorses can see to them, if you wish,’ Stertes said dismissively. ‘Now. As I was saying. I do very much appreciate that you wish to sail to the Seelie Court, but I’m afraid we cannot allow that, not without negotiations taking place first. And that might be a matter of days, I will need to converse with my Uncle, Lord Turus, before we make any decisions. I have power to act on behalf of the House of Atros, but not that much power in matters this grand.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Gwyn said. ‘You’re Unseelie, I’m Unseelie. The House of Atros is Unseelie, so why-’

‘The Mantissa and Ondine are aligned to Albion and his wretched actions in his underwater Kingdom,’ Stertes said.

‘I don’t have much to do with Albion,’ Ondine said.

‘And yet,’ Stertes said, smiling, ‘didn’t you serve alongside him in the Seelie Court? You’ve read the future for his constituents. You pretend at neutrality, but there’s nought much that’s neutral about you.’

‘Then I’ll take a different ship,’ Gwyn said.

‘I’m afraid you’ll not find many ships that can safely navigate House of Atros waters. Our seas can be treacherous.’

‘And you cannot calm them.’ Gwyn said, a thread of rage in his flat voice as he gestured to the still ocean that surrounded them.

‘Today was an exception,’ Stertes said, smiling with the look of someone who knew just how aggravating he was being. ‘Is it such a chore, to speak with us? We do want to help. We have our own issues beneath the waves, we receive zero assistance from the Unseelie Court regarding our wars, our personal matters. Surely a Court that lends us no help at all but expects much can give us at least a few days of negotiations?’

‘Yeah,’ Ondine said, looking tired. ‘All right. We’ll have you installed in the Captain’s cabins, let me know if the accommodations are suitable.’

‘I am sure they will be!’ Stertes said, bringing his palms together, smile broadening. ‘Now. Are there refreshments? Or do you typically not bring any to guests on your ship?’

Ondine just stared at him, and Mosk absently reached out and grabbed Eran’s wrist and pulled him away, not wanting to be part of the tension any longer. Thankfully no one stopped them, and Stertes didn’t say anything about them being rude.

When they were back at the entrance of the cabin, Eran turned and took Mosk’s hand, squeezing the rope around his wrist. Mosk’s mind had been occupied with thoughts of politics, people he didn’t like, beautiful fae who were mean, and then his breathing hitched.

‘That’s unfair,’ Mosk said.

‘Is it?’ Eran said, smiling. ‘Why?’

‘You know why.’

‘Maybe I want you to tell me. I’ve had a hard time lately, maybe I need some reassurance too.’

‘You don’t,’ Mosk said. But for the first time he considered that Eran never really lied to him, something strangling in his throat. ‘But, ah…you…are…’

He didn’t know what to say.

‘What am I?’ Eran said.

‘You don’t _look_ like you need reassurance,’ Mosk said, eyes narrowing. Eran looked pleased, self-satisfied. Eran pulled on Mosk’s wrist until his feet stumbled forward, his hand coming out to stop himself from bumping into Eran, his fingers resting against Eran’s side.

Eran’s other hand slipped behind them and opened the door. He pulled Mosk onto the landing before the stairs, where it was wet and damp and somehow smelled more of saltwater than it did on the main deck. The door of the cabin swung shut behind them, clicking with finality. Mosk felt clammy from the stillness outside, his chest sore from what Eran had done before in the closet. He imagined he could feel it even now, smoke coiling around and biting his lungs.

Eran’s eyes were hungry.

‘Open your mouth,’ he said.

Mosk looked down the stairs to see if anyone was watching. Then he looked past Eran’s face, too scared to make eye contact.

‘It hurts,’ Mosk whispered.

‘I know.’ Eran’s voice dropped. He pulled Mosk even closer, until their chests were touching, until Eran’s voice could whisper into his ear the way the Mages’ voices used to. ‘Honestly? I’m surprised at how much I like it.’

‘O-Oh,’ Mosk said.

‘It makes you so pliant though,’ Eran said. ‘Just for me. Doesn’t it? Don’t you want to give in? Just a little?’

‘You don’t need any reassurance at all,’ Mosk hissed. ‘You liar.’

‘Maybe I need reassurance about other things,’ Eran said. His other hand came up and dug deep into Mosk’s increasingly glossy hair. His fingers pulled tight, dragging Mosk’s head back until his neck stretched. ‘Maybe I’m taking some reassurance for myself. Open your mouth, Mosk.’

The taut line of his throat ached as Mosk swallowed. He stared up at the ceiling, and then Eran was bending him backwards with his body, shifting them so that his lips could rest by Mosk’s mouth.

‘I thought you didn’t like disappointing me,’ Eran said, a hint of something dark there.

Mosk’s mouth opened automatically, his lips making a sound as they parted. He didn’t think to hold his breath until Eran’s lips sealed over his firmly. It was almost like a kiss, but then the strength of Eran’s lungs pushed smoke over his tongue and teeth. Mosk’s throat clamped trying to shut it out, but Eran’s breath was forceful, and when Mosk’s throat relaxed for just a second, it was enough for the smoke to gust into him.

Too hot, too much, Mosk’s knees buckled and the hand at his wrist quickly slid around his lower back, holding him in place. Eran breathed in through his nose, then breathed out more smoke through Mosk’s mouth. It was like burning from the inside out, drying him, making whimpers break off in the back of his throat.

He thought Eran would stop, but he didn’t. He kept going until Mosk realised he needed to _breathe._ His trembling hands came up and pushed weakly at Eran’s chest, and Eran still didn’t stop. Mosk tried to turn his face away, but the hand in his hair kept him in place. Mosk’s eyes began to burn, like the smoke was trying to find a way out, pressing at his face from the inside, creeping up in his nostrils, making his head hurt.

It hurt too much to justify the way Mosk’s body felt warm in other ways, his cock hardening in his pants. It felt like violation and ownership and something too dark to name. Mosk clawed harder at Eran’s shirt. He needed to _breathe._ His head hurt.

Eran moved his mouth away slowly, watching with glowing eyes as Mosk exhaled a short, aching breath of smoke and then inhaled sharply, before coughing hard. Eran gathered him close while Mosk was too weak to do anything else, clinging to Eran’s shirt, coughing, eyes wet.

 _‘Gods,’_ Mosk rasped, voice too raw for the word to come out right.

‘By all the fires, I like you like this,’ Eran said, hitching Mosk up when he started to slide down. Mosk wasn’t even trying to get his feet to work properly. One sort of had some of his weight, but Eran had the rest of it. ‘Breathe, my little flame. Keep breathing. Does it hurt?’

Mosk nodded miserably. ‘You…can’t call me that.’

‘What? My little flame?’ Eran said. ‘Why? You’re breathing smoke, aren’t you? You don’t think there’s a flame inside you too? Maybe it’s figurative, but it’s there.’

Mosk rubbed his face into Eran’s shirt, wiping all the tears away. He hated it. He loved it. He realised when Eran did this to him, all he wanted afterwards was for Eran to hold him like this. It cracked through his mind, didn’t resemble anything else he’d ever known. He felt like roots were growing where branches should, like leaves were sprouting down in the earth. He felt like the hickory he’d called to the recurve bow, everything akimbo, nothing right.

But it felt like satisfying a craving, and he pushed into Eran and coughed intermittently and moaned weakly.

‘Don’t call me that,’ Mosk said.

‘You’re mine,’ Eran said plainly. ‘I can and will call you what I like.’

‘I’m…not yours,’ Mosk said, trying to get his feet back under himself. Eran’s grip tightened and he deliberately stepped backwards, forcing Mosk to lean all of his body weight into Eran’s chest.

‘We’ll see,’ Eran said. ‘Take a few breaths, it’s okay.’

It didn’t feel okay, but Mosk’s breaths got deeper and easier as time went by. He wondered if the smoke did any damage beyond tripping all of Mosk’s memories into darker places. He hated that he still needed something about it, even though it always reminded him of the Aur forest. Did Eran know? Mosk pressed his face into Eran’s chest as Eran rubbed circles into his shoulders and upper back, like he could soothe Mosk’s lungs from behind.

They stayed like that until two other fae walked up through the corridor, clearly needing to use the stairs to get out. Eran made them wait as he set Mosk firmly back on his feet, and then he stayed close as he helped Mosk down the stairs. Mosk’s hands came up and pressed to his ribs, feeling like he was somehow starved of air. As his chest heaved for oxygen, he realised that Eran had stopped him from _breathing._ That he’d liked more than just the smoke part of it.

‘You’re…’ Mosk cleared his throat and looked behind him to make sure the other fae were gone.

‘Yes?’

‘You like things I didn’t think you would like,’ Mosk said, looking at the ground. ‘Did Augus teach you?’

‘No,’ Eran said, his voice and body warm. ‘I’ve learned some things from him, but not everything. I can learn on my own too. I can learn with you. And if you don’t stop me, I think it’s okay. What, did you think I was too Seelie to like the things that I like?’

Mosk shrugged. He’d thought Eran was too _something_ for it. Too wholesome. Too good. Even though he knew Eran could have a darker streak. He still remembered Eran impulsively burning him when he was angry back when they’d first met, even though he always looked like he felt awful afterwards.

‘Do you feel bad about it?’ Mosk said. ‘What…you do to me?’

‘What _we_ do,’ Eran said.

‘But do you?’

Eran tilted his head, looking at Mosk, before turning right down the corridor and sticking closer to Mosk as he clumsily got down the four stairs to the lower walkway.

‘No,’ Eran said. ‘I mean… I think it’s complicated? Sometimes I feel bad about it, but then I see how you react to me and I don’t care, or I think it’s justified. You look so good when you go soft and easy against me, Mosk. When you stop fighting everything and give in.’

Mosk shivered.

‘But you look good all the time,’ Eran added, laughing.

‘Stop it,’ Mosk whispered.

‘You’re like a prince.’

‘Stop,’ Mosk said, walking faster to get away from him. He didn’t like this part at all. It wasn’t what Eran was supposed to say. He knew in his heart that Eran was lying to him for reasons he didn’t understand. He knew in his head that Eran couldn’t lie. There was an unending battle between his heart and head that exhausted him just thinking about it.

Eran caught up to him and grabbed him by the arm, then slid his hand down and took up his wrist, squeezing the rope.

‘You should be used to this,’ Eran said. ‘Someone wanting you like I do. It’s terrible that you’re not. That’s it’s so strange to you. There’s no way I should be the first to be like this around you, in over two hundred years.’

Mosk looked at him and licked his lips, Eran’s gaze dropped to watch them, and Mosk needed to get away.

‘I have to go,’ Mosk said.

‘Okay,’ Eran said, squeezing tighter for a moment before letting go. ‘I’ll see you soon though, won’t I? No more hiding from me, Mosk. Never again.’

‘You can’t…stop me,’ Mosk said, his voice hoarse.

‘I will tie you up in my room so you can’t move,’ Eran said, his eyes hooding, his voice turning darker. ‘I will make you stay.’

Mosk’s heart was doing somersaults in his chest.

‘But!’ Eran said, letting go of Mosk’s wrist abruptly. ‘You have to go, so I’ll see you soon! Thank you for helping me through the storm!’

Eran walked off down the corridor without him, soon humming a song with a bright melody. Mosk watched him go and felt like he’d been shot full of arrows, burned from the inside, like Eran was dragging a piece of Mosk away with him to tie it up in his room forever.

Mosk wanted it so badly he was dizzy with it. Another couple of minutes passed before he remembered how to move, walking back to a room upturned by an artificial storm.

*

That evening Mosk surrendered to sleep with more ease than usual. When he woke in the corridors of ice, he marvelled at the fear that curdled but didn’t scream inside of him. He wandered through the great tunnels of ice, his fingers skimming the sides, looking at the black blobs of bodies and wondering if any of them were Eran’s family.

It wasn’t hard to find Davix, and this time, Mosk could tell that Davix hadn’t expected him at all.

He was no longer dressed in all black, but he no longer wore his robe, either. Instead he wore long pants of deep blue, with hems of white embroidered in pale blue. He sat on a large rock, his legs crossed, his eyes closed, a thin jacket of white with a spray of tiny blue stars across it, a black shirt beneath that.

When he sensed Mosk, he stiffened, his eyes opened and he looked sidelong.

‘My tormentor,’ he said. ‘Tell me, what tortures do you bring today?’

‘Whatever I want,’ Mosk said, amazed at his own daring. He walked right up to Davix and stared down at him, nausea throbbing through his gut and throat, cold prickling at him. He reached out and pinched the wide collar of the coat up in his fingers. It didn’t feel substantial at all. The reminders that Davix was a ghost helped. ‘Where is this from?’

‘I craft it,’ Davix said, staring up at Mosk. ‘It is the clothing of my people.’

‘And where are they? Didn’t you say that you and Olphix killed them?’

‘We crushed them,’ Davix said. He reached up to brush Mosk’s hand away, but then stopped at the last minute, unwilling to touch Mosk’s body, his fingers.

‘You’re so awful,’ Mosk said. ‘You’ve killed so many people. You don’t even care, do you?’

‘Not until it became obvious that my judge and jury would be such a brute of a child,’ Davix said, smirking. ‘Humans believe in gods that adjudicate them upon death, a way of pacifying their own passing, I’d never placed much stock in it. But here I am, here you are. My pathetic haunting.’

Mosk reached out with his other hand and stared down at Davix’s collar as he grasped it. He tore it easily, whatever it was parting like felt. When Davix stood abruptly and pulled away, Mosk was left with half the coat in his hands. Davix’s gaze was bright, indignant.

‘How does someone tell the difference between their magic and their innate powers?’ Mosk said. ‘Tell me.’

Davix reached up to touch his arm – now covered in only a black shirt – and then looked at the bit of coat that Mosk held. He smiled a little and walked back to the rock, sitting down, placing himself in harm’s way. Mosk wondered if he could tear Davix in half the way he’d torn the coat. His fingers clenched. Gods, he wanted it.

‘What are your innate powers?’ Davix said.

‘Growing,’ Mosk said. ‘I can grow plants.’

‘A dryad,’ Davix murmured to himself. ‘Or something like it. And your magic?’

‘I don’t know. I thought I had none. But you told me dreamwalking needs magic.’

‘Indeed it does. Also, it does not belong in the category of growing. Dreamwalking deals in transportation and teleportation and portals.’

‘I can’t do any of those.’

‘But here you are,’ Davix said, looking up curiously. ‘You’re doing one of them.’

‘I don’t do it on purpose. It just happens. I come here.’

‘We’re linked,’ Davix said, even though he still seemed to have no idea who Mosk really was. ‘Something in you yearns for something in me, or something in this.’ He gestured towards the ice.

_My heartsong._

‘Why are you asking me these questions?’ Davix said, having abandoned more of his lyrical voice than ever before. Mosk hoped he was upset here in the ice, even as it left him feeling uneasy. What if he got so upset he remembered? What if he was so sad that Olphix would be able to sense it? ‘Go to the School of the Staff. If you’re dreamwalking, you will be allowed entry. Olphix will take you.’

‘The School of the Staff is gone,’ Mosk said with a confidence he didn’t feel. It was worth it to watch the tiny way Davix’s shoulder’s stiffened. The skin around his eyes went briefly tight. It would have been easy to miss if Mosk wasn’t used to watching him.

‘Impossible.’

‘Is it?’ Mosk said. ‘You’re dead. Olphix isn’t here. And I’m talking to a ghost instead of making a pilgrimage to some stupid school that isn’t even around anymore.’

Davix studied Mosk for a long time, then looked at the place where Mosk had torn his coat, his fingers brushing over the tear in the insubstantial seams. Mosk wondered if it was hard for him to do – to create new clothing like that. Mosk hoped it was very hard.

‘There are thirty seven different discovered branches of magic,’ Davix said eventually. ‘However, at its most fundamental, it can be pared down to twelve or thirteen. The alchemical sciences and transmogrification, including – of course – shapeshifting. Amplification – dryads do this innately of course. Birthing. Bonding. Consumption. Elemental magic – such as ice for me, fire for my darling best brother. Healing and meridian work, though this can be so destructive, it might as well be another class altogether. Illusion. Journeymaking – this is teleportation, portals and what you’re doing now; dreamwalking. That’s not innate to dryads, by the way, so this is your magic.’

Davix paused, counting off the magic on his fingers, eyes narrowing in thought.

‘Linguistics and storyweaving. Quelling. Sigils and crafting. Soul-magic. There. I’m more used to the thirty seven but the taxonomy of magic changed all the time depending on the Mages we trained. If you came to the School of the Staff, or apprenticed to a Mage, a test could be done to see those thirteen you excelled at, and those you had no natural gifts within.’

Mosk pursed his lips together in thought. ‘What’s consumption? Or quelling? I haven’t heard of some of these.’

‘Quelling is simple, it is the ability to nullify or mute the magic or abilities of others. At its most profound, it is the nullification of life itself. Taronis is gifted at this. Consumption, ah, that is the bread and butter of my brother. It is the magical ability to take and eat the ether of the magic of others. Sometimes, perfectly, doing so permanently. It was what we gave to the Nightingale, our sweet nearly-son, and it was always something, to see Olphix suck down the magic of a Mage that tried to betray us, or worse, some simpleton who was pretending at Magery while wearing a false motley.’

Mosk thought of how all the classless magic had been taken; stored and then sucked away by Olphix. Mosk knew then that this was consumption magic, and that Olphix must be very good at it, to take so much. Helplessly, interest kindled, Mosk found himself sitting down on the hard permafrost, looking up at Davix.

‘Soul-magic is heartsongs?’ Mosk said.

‘Soul-bonds, heartsongs, possession, depossession – crudely known as exorcism in some circles, soul-strengthening, soul-weakening. Some of these tie into other forms of magic. Bonding is its own sub-category. Dragon magic lives under the soul-magic category, mostly, when it isn’t more matched to elemental magic. Or linguistics. Or journeymaking.’

Davix explained things clearly, and Mosk wondered what he was like as a teacher. Cruel? Playful? Direct? Mosk had no idea.

‘Oh, hungry haunting of mine,’ Davix said, smiling in self-deprecation. ‘If the School of the Staff is stopped so, then tell me, is my brother…’ He paused. Swallowed. ‘Is my brother…does his heart still beat? Is he here, present in this tangible universe?’

Mosk wanted so badly to lie to him. He tried to think of the thing that might hurt him most. In the end he decided that it might be worse to think he was still alive, to think he would never see him again. The vindictive spite Mosk bathed in took apart his thoughts until Davix’s expression fell from imploring to something lost and frightened.

‘He’s alive,’ Mosk said. ‘But I don’t know if he wants to be. A lot of people think it’s the end for him.’

‘I am dead. How could it be any other way? Our hearts are in twain. Many years ago now, too many to count, we married ourselves with the loving bonds of dragons, to die should the other perish. We have changed ourselves too often since to _die,_ but…he is wounded inside. It is more than grief, though it’s also a grief greater than any other. He’s been scarred. I wonder if such a thing is why I simply cannot remember significant tracts of myself. Mayhap this is what it is to be a shade of something.’

‘You killed all the dragons,’ Mosk said.

‘Yes,’ Davix said, smiling. ‘Oh, tell me I’m a monster, my haunting friend, so that I might agree.’

‘You have no soul,’ Mosk said. ‘You’re not even upset. You just kill things to become more powerful!’

‘I have a soul,’ Davix said, then he cocked his head. ‘Actually, I find myself apprehensive about that _now,_ of course. Am I alive enough to have one? No. But _before,_ of course I had a soul. I was capable of a love that crawled the world over so many times that everyone breathes it in and is uplifted for it. I am the life and the light that shines, I am the cold and the night across the sky, I am his and he is mine, and nothing else matters to me in the world except maybe…magic.’

Davix stretched his arms up above his head and then arched backwards, graceful and long-limbed.

‘He is the death and the shadow that blinds, he is the fire and the sun infusing the world. He is mine and I am his. Olphix. _Olphix.’_

Mosk shivered, one arm wrapping around himself to grasp his upper arm.

‘I say it and I say it,’ Davix muttered. ‘He never hears me.’

‘Good!’ Mosk said, pushing himself up and staring at Davix. ‘Good! I hope he never hears you again. I hope, when I kill him, you both never hear each other again.’

Davix’s eyes widened, his limber pose pulling in. ‘Repeat that.’

‘I hope you have a good memory of his voice, I bet you do, because I can remember Chaley and I can remember Mallem and _all_ of them. But that’s all you’re ever going to have, like me! I hope his voice fades and fades, until you have nothing. Until your stupid ghost mind reaches for him and you find nothing but stupid pretty words and emptiness.’

Mosk walked forwards, unaware of his own body. He grabbed Davix’s shoulder and he turned his rage outwards and then Davix gasped and _shouted._

Thin twigs and vines sprouted from Davix’s shoulder, through his clothing, whipping upwards and growing leaves and nodes for flowers even as Mosk stumbled backwards and Davix stood and ripped away what Mosk had grown.

But even as Mosk was left listening to his own shaking, frightened breathing, Davix was staring at the plant-life in his hands and then looking to Mosk with a terrifying expression on his face. Because he looked _pleased._

‘Oh, goodness me,’ Davix said, voice only a little strained. ‘Don’t you have a _great_ power, my haunted, haunting friend? When you grace me with your petty, pitiful presence again, I think we’ll have to have a _talk._ Don’t you? Goodbye.’

For Mosk was fading, sickened by his actions, still able to see wood growing from Davix’s _body._ Slower now, but still there. It had torn his false clothing. Davix reached and pulled out a long bloodied stick from himself, a smile playing the corners of his mouth even as Mosk pulled back into waking.

The first thing Mosk did was keen into palms that he pressed hard against his mouth.

It wasn’t him. That hadn’t been him. Davix was the monstrous one. Mosk was nothing. Nothing at all.

He turned over in bed and trembled, telling himself it had just been the ice and Davix, and nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter, 'Too Far':
> 
> ‘Sometimes I think about it when I shouldn’t,’ Eran said. ‘When I’m mad, and I think about how I could do this to you, and make you deal with it. Not really a punishment, because you’d like it, but still a lot to take. Would you like that?’ 
> 
> _No,_ Mosk thought. He kept his eyes closed. 
> 
> Was Eran punishing him? Was Mosk being punished for the lying? Did Eran want to punish him with _this?_
> 
> The wave of nausea came and went, a single bolt of coldness that vanished as Eran built up his orgasm. He couldn’t think of what to say. He reached for the words he used when he had nothing else.
> 
> ‘I don’t know.’


	14. Too Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author tags: Edging, dissociation.
> 
> OOF this chapter kicks off the next ten chapters basically, and I'm *still* dealing with the fallout.

_Mosk_

_*_

Mosk spent several days avoiding Stertes and his retinue. He still wanted to explore the ship, which led him one day to the room that Augus and Ash were staying in. He stood by the door, his hand on it, thinking that he’d not gone to visit Augus on his own, and maybe that was rude. He didn’t see Julvia either. He sort of ignored everyone unless it was Eran, and sometimes Gwyn.

The door swung inwards and Mosk flinched backwards, surprised to see Ash staring at him with an equal amount of shock.

‘Hey, buddy. Everything cool?’

Mosk nodded, Ash smiled, and Mosk thought he looked tired. Really tired. There were dark circles under his eyes and his lips were chapped, and as his eyes roved over Ash’s face, the waterhorse’s expression turned knowing.

‘Bad, huh?’ Ash said, a half-smile on his face. ‘Not my usual handsome self, right?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Mosk said automatically. ‘You must be so hungry.’

‘Hell yeah,’ Ash muttered.

‘Mosk?’ It was Augus’ voice, and Ash moved sideways so that Mosk could see him sitting upright in bed, eyebrows drawn together. ‘What’s wrong?’

Mosk never came to see them so they thought he was a messenger. He shook his head, staring between them. He didn’t know what he was thinking. He didn’t even really want to _visit._ He just didn’t want to risk seeing Stertes, and he hadn’t been able to find the Raven Prince since Stertes came aboard the ship, which felt like a sign. Or maybe the Raven Prince just liked being mysterious.

‘No, nothing’s wrong, I just…um, nothing. It’s nothing. So…’ He waved awkwardly and turned, feeling like he’d made a mistake.

‘Hang on a tick,’ Ash said, laughing, though his voice was more strained than usual. Like he was sick. Mosk wished for a strange second that Ash and Augus could eat fae, that it would sustain them like humans did. ‘Don’t go. Hey, stay a bit. Haven’t seen you in a while.’

‘Yeah,’ Mosk said, hesitating and turning back. ‘I just wanted to see- See how you were. Both of you.’

Augus tilted his head at Mosk, and Mosk looked between the brothers and realised that Augus looked better than Ash did. For a long time, hadn’t it been the other way around? But something had shifted. Mosk didn’t know much about Ash at all, and they’d hardly talked on the journey. But he could tell it was bad.

But why was Augus doing so well?

‘You seem…better than I thought,’ Mosk said to Augus.

‘Yes,’ Augus said. ‘I’m doing about as well as can be expected. But Gwyn does not want me to go above deck for now. I miss the fresh air, even if it is salty, but every now and then he pretends to be King and I listen to him because it makes my life easier.’

Mosk frowned, thinking it over. Then it came to him so suddenly he blinked. Of course, the Raven Prince had attacked Augus and wounded him, but he’d been confused at the time and he hadn’t tried anything like that since.

‘Oh!’ Mosk said. ‘The Raven Prince wouldn’t hurt you again. If anything, I think he misses you?’

There was a strange shift in the energy in the room. A look exchanged between Ash and Augus, like maybe they knew that, like maybe _that_ was the problem. But why would that be a problem? Mosk’s heart thumped in his chest as he realised that he’d made a mistake somehow. When Augus looked at him again, his face was blank. It was unnerving.

‘Uh,’ Mosk said. ‘So I…’

‘Talking to him a lot, are you?’ Augus said, his voice light, his face empty.

Mosk took a step backwards, even as Ash’s tired face twisted into some facsimile of sympathy.

‘No,’ Mosk said, shaking his head. ‘Not really.’

‘You spend a lot of time in the crow’s nest with him,’ Ash said. ‘He’s been glamouring you since the beginning. Guess you’d make a good messenger, because you’re probably not even aware enough to know it’s happening. But you should be careful around him.’

‘Yeah,’ Mosk said hurriedly, thinking he should be careful around _everyone._ He felt threatened, and he could hear it in Ash’s words, an undercurrent of protectiveness towards Augus.

Mosk had made a mistake. Augus was the one who talked to Eran about how to…to hurt him and to do all those things to him. Augus had cast his influence over Eran’s actions, and now Eran had too much power over Mosk. They all talked of being careful of the Raven Prince, or even the Gancanagh, but they were dangerous too. All of them.

‘Sorry,’ Mosk said quickly, shaking his head and turning, catching a glimpse of Augus’ expression suddenly coming back to life, shifting, but not wanting to see how it changed. ‘Sorry. I didn’t- I don’t even know why I came.’

He stumbled to the door and ignored Augus’ request that he wait, blindly grateful that it wasn’t a compulsion, and slammed the door behind him. He walked away quickly, thinking that he was stupid, so _stupid,_ and that if he had to choose between spending time with the waterhorses or with the raven shifter, the Raven Prince would always come out on top, even if he was glamouring Mosk.

*

Mosk woke from a dreamless sleep, thinking for a second that the warm presence over him was Davix, even though it made no sense. His eyes flew open, amber staring back at him, and Mosk shuddered out a breath of relief even as he was immediately apprehensive.

‘What’s wrong?’ Mosk said.

‘You always assume something is wrong,’ Eran said.

 _Something almost always is,_ Mosk thought bitterly, but he shoved the thought aside. Of everyone on this ship, Mosk was the least able to chat to people, and Eran found it easy. Doing things Eran’s way was probably healthier.

He’d made his way to Eran’s room, even though he knew Eran was friends with Augus and the whole thing weirded him out. Everyone got along better with each other than they did with him, but even as it stung Mosk’s heart, he understood it. They’d all met him, after all. If his family didn’t want him around – except Chaley, and maybe his Mamatree sometimes – why would people who weren’t blood?

But Eran had accepted him without question, had continued with his stretches and some slow dance moves that he said helped with the rocking sickness that came with the ship. Mosk crawled into Eran’s bed and fell asleep there, trying to watch Eran for as long as he could, before tiredness washed away his awareness of the world.

Now, Eran was in bed beside him, watching him, and Mosk felt groggy and awake at the same time, like his body knew to be alert, but his brain hadn’t followed suit.

‘Good evening,’ Eran said. ‘You must have needed the sleep.’

‘I…maybe,’ Mosk said. Eran was so close. He was under the blankets too. Mosk looked down to his shoulders and the shirt he was wearing before wasn’t there. Was he naked? Mosk’s fingers twitched.

‘It’s nice seeing you here, in my bed,’ Eran said. Mosk swallowed. He was still fully dressed, though he wasn’t wearing shoes, he didn’t like them. ‘It gives me so many ideas.’

‘Ideas?’ Mosk said, trying distract himself from the way his heart pounded. He felt very awake now. He focused on Eran’s eyeliner, wondered if he’d ever be able to hold the stick of black again, if he’d ever be trusted near Eran’s eyes the way Eran trusted him that day in the verkhwin’s home, because Eran was too exhausted to say no.

‘Mmhm.’ Eran scooted forwards and grasped Mosk’s shirt in his hand, pulling him closer.  

Mosk’s thoughts hiccupped clumsily over the events of the morning, seeing Augus and Ash, the way their attitudes had gone from confused, to welcoming, to foreboding, threatening. The way Eran knew these people so much better than he did. Mosk didn’t know what Eran saw in him. He knew Eran said nice things sometimes, and he knew Eran probably believed them in the moment, but Mosk was small-minded, he’d had a small life, he remembered once telling Eran that they were both young and didn’t know much, but the truth was that Eran had lived far more of life than Mosk ever had.

‘What are you thinking?’ Eran said.

‘I wish I was more like you,’ Mosk said, only realising afterwards what he’d said. He stilled, but Eran was pulling him in, full of dynamism, alive with the fire inside of him. He was always burning forwards in his life. Even when he was terrified and distraught, shifting into true form, after the second time doing it, he seemed to just take it in his stride.

‘Why?’

It was tempting to say something mean, because Mosk couldn’t give a real answer.

‘Fuck me,’ Mosk said.

‘Okay,’ Eran said, a wicked grin crossing his face, making his teeth shine bright. Mosk didn’t know if this was the solution, but he felt scrambled up inside. Why did Eran keep forgiving him? ‘I’ve only been thinking about it for ages. Can I tie you up?’

Mosk nodded. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, but did it matter? Everything about Eran was so intense that his belly already felt like it was clutching together, preparing for something he couldn’t ever prepare for.

‘Good. Stay there.’

Eran slid out of the bed and Mosk sat up, feeling muzzy. He rubbed at his eyes, took his shirt off and let it drop to the side of the bed. He wasn’t really sure what he wanted. It hadn’t been that long since Eran had discovered what a liar he was, even if he was being good about it. But Mosk imagined Eran and Augus talking about it behind his back and he stared at the bed for several long moments.

‘Take your pants off, Mosk,’ Eran said, when he came back with the ropes.

Mosk nodded, looking up at Eran for guidance, taking them off. He wanted to ask questions, but his mouth wouldn’t work.

‘Hey.’ Eran leaned across the bed and rested his hand against Mosk’s jaw, over his ear. ‘You okay? Are you still waking up?’

‘I think so,’ Mosk said. ‘I slept pretty deeply.’

‘You did,’ Eran said. ‘It makes me feel good that you trust that you can come here.’

Mosk pressed his lips together, unsure. Was that what it was? Probably. Wouldn’t Eran find that annoying?

Mosk’s breathing was shallow as Eran tied him up. He expected more ropes, was disappointed when it was only his wrists that were bound, and even then, only together and not to anything else. There was something satisfying about being able to pull against the bed, or feel the loops around one ankle too, but he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure why he liked it, or if it was okay to ask for things. He’d asked Eran to fuck him anyway. He was already getting what he wanted.

He ended up on his back on Eran’s bed, two pillows beneath his hips making him feel awful and exposed, arms tied behind him, staring up at the ceiling. His eyelids fluttered when he felt fingers trace along his cock, before moving lower, over his balls, thumbs pressing into the creases of his groin. When Eran pressed down and in, as though seeking thigh muscle and artery, Mosk jerked. It was a little painful, but it captured his attention all the same.

He thought Eran would talk to him more, but Eran didn’t. Not when he wrapped his hand around Mosk’s cock – palm slick with already heated lubricant – and not when he pressed his fingers to Mosk’s entrance, slipping into him.

Mosk couldn’t feel his body properly, he wondered why it was all so different.

‘How are you doing?’ Eran asked.

‘Fine,’ Mosk said, eyelids heavy, mind loose. Eran’s fingers felt good, but Mosk felt too exposed, his hips at an awkward angle.  

‘You’re in a quiet mood.’

Mosk thought Eran was in a quiet mood, but maybe it was Mosk. Did he say more? Mosk couldn’t remember.

‘I am?’

‘I think I know a way to get you to make some noise though.’

Eran’s fingers twisted cleverly inside of him, and Mosk grunted even as he thought of how those fingers were so good painting the lines on his eyes. Mosk spread his legs wider, and memories knocked at the door of his mind, all the times he’d done this for countless others. He frowned, then gasped when the tips of Eran’s fingers dug into his prostate.

His gut clenched and his cock jerked, his shoulders lifted off the bed at the sensation. He panted hard afterwards, finding a bizarre comfort in the way Eran’s hand on his cock was steady and not as relentless as the fingers inside of him.

‘I’m going to make you come,’ Eran said.

‘O-okay.’

‘But not yet.’

Mosk groaned. He couldn’t stand it, if Eran pushed him like last time. It was exhausting, wanting so much, for so long, and being held back from it. His shoulders jerked as his wrists twisted in the rope, but then he shuddered and settled back down.

‘Do you ever think about how much you can take? I think about it, all the time.’

‘Not much,’ Mosk said, his lungs falling on a small laugh. Eran’s fingers were ramping him up, and Mosk thought he’d end up coming anyway, at this rate. It wouldn’t take much. He was ready, and his body seemed sensitive even though he couldn’t feel all the sensations properly.

‘Sometimes I think about it when I shouldn’t,’ Eran said. ‘When I’m mad, and I think about how I could do this to you, and make you deal with it. Not really a punishment, because you’d like it, but still a lot to take. Would you like that?’

 _No,_ Mosk thought. He kept his eyes closed.

Was Eran punishing him? Was Mosk being punished for the lying? Did Eran want to punish him with _this?_

The wave of nausea came and went, a single bolt of coldness that vanished as Eran built up his orgasm. He couldn’t think of what to say. He reached for the words he used when he had nothing else.

‘I don’t know.’

But then even as Eran slowed down, Mosk realised belatedly that he was close to coming, and he moaned thickly, unable to stop the way the sensations took over his throat and breath, made his face flush. And when Eran drew his hands away and let him slip back from the peak, Mosk’s expression twisted, pained.

He was aware of Eran talking to him, and he was aware of answering. He tried to answer well, he lied, he wanted Eran to have a good time. It was the least he could do, wasn’t it? Make sure that Eran had a good time? At least Mosk felt aroused, Eran was bothering to make his body feel good. Maybe Eran wanted to punish him but at least he wanted to touch him and talk to him too.

‘Hey,’ Eran said, and Mosk blinked up to look at Eran over him, somewhat startled to realise all over again that Eran had finished fingering him and was now inside him. The dull pain of Eran’s length, his thickness, warred with Mosk’s arousal, and Mosk could tell by his own breathing that he liked it. He just…couldn’t seem to feel like he did. ‘Are you with me?’

‘Yeah,’ Mosk said. ‘Please let me come.’

Eran smirked wickedly at him, and that was heat in Mosk’s spine and wanting to bend and do anything for him, give him anything at all. But Mosk was tired and in some new space. Not the place he’d entered in the past with strangers, but not a space he’d entered with Eran before either. He had no name for it. He only knew it was probably something he was doing wrong.

He wanted to be good for Eran.

And Eran fucked him, and jerked him off, and the only times Mosk became agonisingly aware of what was happening was when he was so close to orgasm, and then Eran would stop what he was doing or slow down or change up the pace and Mosk was left sucking down ragged breaths and feeling, strangely, rejected.

Like maybe Eran didn’t think he was good enough for an orgasm.

Like maybe that was the punishment. Mosk got to have sex, but he didn’t get to come.

As soon as he realised what Eran was doing, _how_ Eran was punishing him, he felt something bright inside of his chest deflate. He was heartwood turning rotten, sap turning bitter with the poison of too many insects biting and biting.

For the first time in a long time, he felt himself disappear. It was almost blissful to get away from that sudden pain. He didn’t want to know what he didn’t deserve. He didn’t want to know. Eran deserved to feel good, and obviously Mosk didn’t.

And Mosk still wanted to be good for him, so Mosk knew he was going to have to lie about it.

He escaped it all.

When Eran allowed him to come later, Mosk sobbing with need out of pure physical reflex, Mosk wasn’t aware of the pleasure of it. He knew, distantly, he should feel grateful. He was aware of saying ‘ _thank you_.’

He knew Eran was saying nice things. Possessive things. Things that were normally what he wanted, responded to, and so as Eran withdrew and cleaned him and took care of him, Mosk forced himself to roll to his side and seek Eran’s body. It wasn’t hard. He wanted something, some reminder that he wasn’t awful, even though Eran had spent so long punishing him.

The tangle of his thoughts was too hard to unravel. If he had the energy, he could have waded through them and pulled back the branches and limbs and whippy twigs and seen it all better. But instead the rejection curdled so deep inside of him he wheezed around it while Eran held him.

‘That was a lot, I know,’ Eran said.

Mosk’s eyes burned and his breath hitched and hitched as he forced himself to be good. He had to be good. Eran needed that, and Mosk needed that too. Just for a moment, let him be good.

 _‘_ Thank you,’ Mosk made himself say.

He wanted to apologise, but he didn’t know what he’d be saying, everything tasting like ash, and not in the same way as the smoke that Eran could push into him. Something had changed. Maybe all Mosk’s lying had ruined something, and he was only seeing it for what it was now. Maybe Eran still liked him, but it would never be the same, because he lied, he _lied._

‘Did you like it?’ Mosk asked, his voice trembling.

‘Yes. I’d love to do that again,’ Eran said, but then he hesitated. ‘Did you?’

‘Uh huh,’ Mosk said.

There was a silence, and Mosk realised he wasn’t doing a good enough job.

‘I’m so tired,’ Mosk added.

‘Of course you are,’ Eran said quickly. Mosk flinched away from the fingers that brushed soothingly over his hair, and Eran sighed, and Mosk’s throat strangled away as he forced himself to not be stupid and emotional and immature and all the things his family always knew he was.

He also knew that Eran must have realised that Mosk wasn’t entirely there, and decided it was okay. Surely Eran, who tried to see everything, who talked so much last time, would have noticed. So Eran must have decided that Mosk being tortured with whatever Eran had done, dragging out that single orgasm that hadn’t been at all worth it, was a normal thing. A normal punishment.

Mosk felt sick.

He pretended to sleep, listening to Eran’s breathing turn slow and easy, and then, with come leaking out of him and feeling like he was leaving a tavern, he slipped out of the room with his clothing clenched in one hand and a dizzy roaring noise in his head.

*

An hour later, he ran down the corridor to the shared showers to quickly clean himself. He tried not to feel his fingers between his own legs, pushing into himself, making sure to get all of it. Eran must have burned him when he’d come, but Mosk hadn’t even noticed, and as he rinsed his hands and his body, he realised he was shaking. He’d made a mistake. He’d ruined this. He couldn’t let Eran know. Eran would probably only blame himself, or worse, maybe he’d be angry at Mosk, maybe he’d want to punish him again.

He dressed quickly, running back to his room. It was late, he hoped that Eran wouldn’t be there waiting for him, but Eran must have still been sleeping. Mosk stood in his room, staring around it, then he paced and tugged at the hair at the base of his neck.

He couldn’t go to the Raven Prince. He couldn’t go to the top of the crow’s nest. This wasn’t something that belonged to him. The Raven Prince probably wouldn’t care anyway.

Mosk went into the poorly organised closet and brought out a coat that was far too large for him. Huge and coloured in the deep green of kelp, the material smooth and soft, warm and pliant. The hems fell down to his feet, the sleeves passed his hands. He had only a little of his own clothing, everything else had been found for him on the ship.

He walked down the corridor, up the stairs, feeling the chill around the ship even before he was above on the main decking. When he went out, stars poked through the black of the night sky, his breath misted in front of his face and Mosk thought of smoke and Eran and hurt all over, his body stiff, used up.

Sometimes he wondered why anyone wanted to get older, when he felt like the oldest person, bleached and gnarled and empty. Old trees looked beautiful, old souls were valued, but Mosk was the kind of old that needed to be thrown away.

His toes curled down into the damp, chilled wood, he walked aimlessly. He looked up to the crow’s nest, but he didn’t think the Raven Prince was there.

He ended up in a darker corner, after having walked past several sea fae who were smoking something from pipes that smelled surprisingly sweet. The fae watched him as he passed, but didn’t ask any questions, and Mosk didn’t know who they were. He didn’t know how many fae lived on the Mantissa, but it was too many to learn them all. Or maybe they were part of Stertes’ group.

Now, he was near the front of the ship, having walked some way, climbing the steps to stand near the railing, right where the ship would normally be carving her way through the waters. But the Mantissa was quiet, the ocean around her was passive, the cold having settled so heavily around them that it even seemed to crush the ocean’s passion, the waves rhythmic and gentle.

A rime of frost settled on some of the wooden railing, and Mosk dug his nail into it and scratched it. He breathed mist, pulled the coat tighter around himself, tried not to think of what his sister would say.

But what _would_ she say? Did it matter? She was dead.

‘Because of me,’ Mosk said to himself.

‘What’s that?’ A crisp, aristocratic voice, and Mosk spun, surprised to see Stertes there, alone.

‘What?’ Mosk said, staring. ‘Do you want me to leave?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Stertes said, looking amused, indulgent. He walked over, arms behind his back. When he reached Mosk he unclasped his hands and placed them on the railing, looking out across the sea. ‘I am so unused to seeing her like this, the beautiful sea. But she’s everywhere, isn’t she? She’s the rain and the mist and the vapour that touches us, she’s the coating of water on the railing, and the frost here. She’ll leave her salt behind and make her way to the land, and give it only a little bit of herself, and even that will be enough to make the land happy. See, how giving she is?’

Mosk stared at him, and then blinked down at the ocean, never having thought about it before. Stertes laughed gently, and then sighed.

‘You are Mosk Manytrees, the one who knows that all the species of kelp and seaweed grow in the Aur forest too.’

‘Grew,’ Mosk said.

‘That must be a sore subject, I apologise,’ Stertes said. ‘You’re all alone tonight. Do you have no companions?’

‘He’s sleeping,’ Mosk said.

‘The fire fae?’ Stertes said. ‘That’s curious. But you’re a dryad. I wouldn’t have thought that would work.’

Mosk swallowed. He wasn’t sure it worked either. Not after today. And now a person who was basically a prince was talking to him. Mosk didn’t understand the world anymore. He stared down at the ocean and wished he could drown like underfae could. Instead he’d just breathe water, maybe, fall unconscious. They would keep him or rescue him, one day he’d wake, maybe days or weeks or months or years would have passed.

It would be a kind of death.

‘You are beautiful though, aren’t you?’ Stertes said, a kind of wonder in his voice.

Mosk’s eyes widened, he looked sidelong at Stertes, wondering what the game was. But Stertes only smiled at him, before moving his hand over so that his little finger rested against Mosk’s thumb. Mosk jerked his hand back, and Stertes did nothing more.

‘You don’t believe me?’ Stertes said.

‘I’m a very ordinary Aur dryad,’ Mosk said.

‘You’re a seventh son of a seventh son.’

‘That doesn’t seem to mean anything,’ Mosk said, looking back at the sea. ‘And I meant that by Aur dryad standards, the way I look, it’s…’

‘But they are all dead, aren’t they?’ Stertes said. ‘So what does it matter, that they thought you ordinary, or average looking? Mosk Manytrees, I am Stertes, of the House of Atros, and I think you are very beautiful to gaze upon. I keep trying to imagine what you would look like if you were a mer, like me, the others. If that hair of yours could turn to fins and sails.’

‘Stop it,’ Mosk said.

‘Yes,’ Stertes purred. ‘You do not like flattery? I love it. Gaze upon me then, and tell me what you see.’

Mosk’s heart, why did it always beat so hard? Why was it always like this? Mosk risked turning his head to look at Stertes, his aquamarine eyes and his translucent, pale blue hair that seemed to pick up the night sky in its shading but still gleamed even in the lack of light. Stertes watched Mosk, and his smile broadened.

‘Your gaze flatters me,’ Stertes said. ‘But why are you up here, alone, if you have a companion? The others too, they all talk of your role in killing Davix – I can only imagine. Yet here you stand, unprotected.’

‘Is that a threat?’ Mosk said, uncertain what Stertes’ game was. He still couldn’t tell.

‘A _threat?’_

‘I… No. It’s not?’ Mosk said, back pedalling.

‘I’m curious,’ Stertes said, and then he laughed, the sound cutting. ‘You will know when I threaten you. I forget that not everyone knows my reputation. Their loss. They will one day, anyway.’

‘Guess you’re into power then,’ Mosk said absently, before biting down on the inside of his lower lip. Why did he keep saying things like this? Why did he risk such stupid things around powerful people? Like attacking Davix? And always going to see the Raven Prince? Even Ash telling him that the Raven Prince was glamouring him wasn’t remotely offputting.

‘I _am_ into power,’ Stertes said, leaning his waist against the railing before turning and lifting himself onto it so that he could look down on Mosk, back facing to the sea. It reminded him of the Raven Prince, but it was different too, less carefree, more deliberate. ‘I collect it. Have you never tried it yourself? But there are two kinds of people in this world. Those who collect it and crave it, and those who yield before it. There are many people who think they are the former, but are secretly the latter. What about you?’

‘I’m the last one,’ Mosk said, a bitter half-smile on his face.

‘That’s honest,’ Stertes said. ‘I respect that.’

‘Sure,’ Mosk said. ‘I’m land fae, whatever that means, I’m sure you respect me a lot.’

‘You have bite,’ Stertes said. ‘You’re but a babe, aren’t you? The world’s made you so cynical already? Yet you already know you’re someone who yields to power. That’s a fascinating thing for a seventh son of a seventh son to say. Do you want to yield to me?’

Mosk looked up at Stertes in shock. Stertes’ eyes were direct with a kind of hunger, but not warm like Eran’s.

‘Maybe,’ Stertes said, sliding down off the railing, ‘you’re just having a lonely night. You don’t have to yield to me, if you don’t want to, Mosk Manytrees.’

But he lifted his hand and placed it between Mosk’s shoulder blades, and it was startling and strangely possessive, and Mosk felt like Eran should be there, but Eran had punished him and maybe Eran didn’t want him. Not _really._

Confusion clouded around him. Stertes had him cornered in a strange way. If Mosk stepped backwards, he’d press into the hand on his upper spine. If he stepped forwards, he’d bump into Stertes. To his left was the railing, to his right, Stertes’ arm.

‘You must be so bored,’ Mosk said finally, unable to think of anything else to say.

He flinched when he felt the way the fingers curled into his back. Was it meant to be comforting? It wasn’t rough, but it felt hungry.

‘I saw a pretty fae making his way to the front of the ship,’ Stertes said quietly. ‘Are we not all free fae, to do as we desire? I hurt nothing and no one if I say I desire you. And if you don’t desire me in return, you only need say.’

‘I don’t want you,’ Mosk said. ‘I don’t want anyone.’

‘Ah, how very Unseelie of you. Except not yet, young fingerling, because I can see through your lies. But I’ll let you keep them. It’s only fair, isn’t it?’

The hand at his shoulders reached up and tucked a strand of Mosk’s hair behind his ear, and Mosk jerked backwards, touching the place that Stertes had touched.

‘Stop messing with me,’ Mosk said.

‘But you’re lonely,’ Stertes said.

‘Are you just that used to getting what you want?’

‘Yes,’ Stertes said, eyes moving over Mosk’s body. ‘Even when they are as poorly dressed as you are. But it is cold. Oh, you land fae, so fragile. You can’t even warm yourself? But I suppose they did burn your forest down – something that could never have happened in the sea, by the way.’

Stertes turned back to face the ocean, and Mosk glared at him.

‘I was rude,’ Stertes said, without even looking back at him.

‘You’ve been rude the whole time,’ Mosk said.

‘You haven’t been around me the whole time.’

‘You just seem that way,’ Mosk snapped. ‘Really rude.’

‘So do you,’ Stertes said smoothly.

‘Well, you just basically called me a baby and said I’m immature, so what’s your excuse?’

Stertes’ eyes widened a fraction, then he grinned.

‘You don’t think we’d be good together?’ Stertes said, pushing away from the railing, beginning to laugh. ‘Because I think we would. And I would very much give you something to remember me by. I just came to see if you were all right.’

‘You came to fuck me,’ Mosk said.

‘It can’t be both?’ Stertes said.

Mosk was disarmed and if he thought about it too hard, he was horrified to find that he was sort of enjoying himself. It was like when he sometimes used to argue with Mallem, except Stertes actually wanted him. Or he wanted something about him. Maybe he just wanted to waste some time.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Stertes said. ‘I’m so unfair. You’re captivating, alone, I spun a story in my mind of a lonely boy, having lost everything, washed out into the depths of the ocean. But then in my mind, here I am, and I come to you and we talk quietly, and I offer you consolation. It turns out I only showed you my personality, and you reacted in kind.’

Mosk swallowed, and Stertes stepped closer to him, looking down Mosk’s face to his lips, then to his neck and chest. Finally, he reached out and as Mosk realised what he was doing and started to withdraw, Stertes caught the rope around his wrist.

‘Curious,’ Stertes said. ‘I think you do like to yield rather a lot, actually.’

‘That’s private,’ Mosk said.

‘It’s right here, for everyone to see,’ Stertes said, pulling Mosk forward and then squeezing the rope like Eran did. ‘Are you a lost pet? Was your owner mean to you?’

Stertes leaned forwards.

‘Because I would not be as mean as your owner was.’

Mosk grit his teeth, yanked his wrist backwards, surprised when Stertes let it go easily.

‘Do you think I’m propositioning everyone?’ Stertes said. ‘I’m not. You weren’t like the others, I knew as soon as I saw you. And you’re _not_ like them. Not about politics, not about the negotiations. Sometimes I need a break too. Sometimes we all need something different. You look carved of grief, but I love your anger. Do you ever smile?’

‘No!’ Mosk said, keeping the wrist with the rope around it tucked close to his ribs.

‘No?’ Stertes said, pressing his own hand to his chest as though he’d been wounded. ‘Never?’

‘Stop messing with me!’ Mosk shouted.

‘Ah,’ Stertes said in a lower, quieter voice, a counterpoint to Mosk’s shrill distress. ‘No, I think not. But I’ll leave you be tonight. That’s what you want isn’t it? But no one’s ever truly alone on the Mantissa. Lonely though, that’s another matter entirely.’

‘Go away,’ Mosk said, sullen, turning back to the rail and trying to tune Stertes out.

‘I will,’ Stertes said. ‘I do sincerely apologise. Obviously, I am a lot to take! Do you deserve gentleness then? I’m sorry.’

The words were like spikes. No, Mosk didn’t deserve gentleness either. He stared at the sea and breathed her in and exhaled her as mist and thought it was like Stertes said; she was everywhere. It was like being in the Aur forest.

Mosk bent over the railing, the pain in his gut clear, bright, unavoidable.

A minute later, he became aware of Stertes close to him, talking to him.

‘…Mosk? Are you all right? Mosk?’

‘I’m _fine,’_ Mosk said.

‘No,’ Stertes sighed. ‘Is there anyone I should get? I have healers. But the Captain? The King?’

‘No one,’ Mosk said.

‘Then perhaps…’ Stertes said. ‘May I stand beside you and talk about the sea some more? I miss not being cradled by her, constantly. Hearing the songs of whales always, even when I’m sleeping. The air doesn’t carry them, but the water always will. An eternity of song.’

‘And the sea can’t be burned down,’ Mosk rasped.

‘No,’ Stertes said speculatively. ‘I should not have said that. I was cruel.’

‘Everyone’s cruel.’

Mosk wished it wasn’t true. It _wasn’t._ Just because Eran was doing what Mosk deserved, didn’t mean he was being cruel. He was still fair enough to give Mosk an orgasm and look after him and spend time with him. He was kind, and Mosk had it all wrong. He always did

‘Sometimes,’ Stertes said, ‘I can be kind. Do you want to hear about whales? There are shifters too, did you know?’

‘Whale shifters?’ Mosk said, surprised. ‘Are they…big?’

‘Yes!’ Stertes said, sounding younger with the excitement that laced his voice. ‘Oh, yes. They are so large, kindly, almost impossible to understand. Of course most whales aren’t shifters, but they’re also large, kindly and nearly impossible to understand. Do you want to hear more?’

Mosk hesitated for a long time, Stertes waiting instead of pushing him, and finally Mosk – desperate for any distraction at all – nodded.

As he listened to Stertes, his whole body felt sore, but he ignored it.

It was easier than he thought it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter, 'Own Yourself':
> 
> ‘Did you do something bad?’ Stertes said, his voice lower, quieter. ‘You can tell me. We all do bad things sometimes. Some of us are even poisoned inside, and there’s nothing we can do about it.’
> 
> ‘You too?’ Mosk said, looking at him. 
> 
> Stertes laughed. ‘Please, not me! But you? Ah, then. Maybe he had his reasons for making you look so lost. It can’t be easy, but perhaps you just have to accept his rejection of you! I’m sure that will help.’ 
> 
> Mosk didn’t know what to do with any of what Stertes said, except that it was so close to the things he told himself that the words folded into him, sinking deep like anchors. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. 
> 
> ‘Yeah,’ Mosk said, voice thin. 
> 
> ‘Mm, yes,’ Stertes agreed. ‘Truly, if you care for him alongside whatever poison you carry, perhaps the right answer is to let him leave you. That’s what love is, isn’t it? You have to let go of the ones you love sometimes, and if they _really_ care, they’ll come back.’


	15. Own Yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This month omg, do you ever have one of those months (years / lifetimes) where you're just like 'let me lie face down for a few years please' that's where I'm at but anyway, a new chapter, and I hope you enjoy some of the moments in this one as much as I enjoyed writing them!

_Mosk_

*

The next morning, Mosk ventured out early, not even risking opening Eran’s door to see if he was awake. Mosk wore the same coat as the night before, liking that it was huge and ugly, that he could hide in it. His body ached from what he’d experienced, but he still couldn’t remember it all. He couldn’t even remember what the orgasm felt like. He’d ruined it. Eran had tried so hard, for so long, and in a single night, Mosk had ruined it.

He didn’t know where to go. He sensed that the Raven Prince was on the Mantissa, but he wasn’t on the crow’s nest. He wandered past the area where fae sparred in the dawn light, and he stuck to the gunwale, skirting around fae that sometimes sat there. They smoked their pipes or cigars, others playing games with tiny shell pieces on intricate stone boards, absorbed in strategy.

He wanted sap, but Mosk had never thought to ask Eran where it was kept, so he didn’t know where to get it. He reached a bare patch of gunwale and spread his fingers onto the wet wooden rail, thinking of how Stertes had spoken of whales and their songs, and dolphins, and the manta rays that leapt from the sea and sailed like flags across the waves.

The ocean, she was endless in a way the Aur forest was meant to be. Mosk stared down at the waves and carefully didn’t think about his family, or the fire, and instead thought about the highest leaves in the forest canopy and how they moved in the wind, and how that sometimes sounded like waves rising and falling.

‘Well, well, well,’ Stertes said as he walked over to Mosk’s side, smiling at Mosk’s surprise. ‘You can’t have slept at all! We only departed a few hours ago.’

‘Did you sleep?’ Mosk said.

‘No,’ Stertes said. ‘If only! I have a lot of work to do. I take my breaks where I can, but sleep is hard to come by for fae like me. Do you know what that’s like?’

‘Maybe,’ Mosk said, not sure how he felt about the way Stertes’ aquamarine eyes didn’t just look at his eyes, but also his hair and lips, his shoulders, his waist and even his legs.

‘And your companion? Is he fetching breakfast for you both?’

Mosk shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about Eran.

‘No? How sad. Well, do you want to go fetch him? I do enjoy the company of fire fae too! Perhaps we could all have a conversation about the sea and flames and forests, I’m sure it would be divine.’

‘You can talk to Eran later if you want,’ Mosk said, frowning at him. ‘I have to go.’

When he turned, Stertes caught him by the rope around his wrist, and Mosk hissed, jerking his arm free. Stertes let go easily, smiling in confusion.

‘Is something wrong?’ Stertes said. ‘Are you still sad?’

Mosk shivered, he edged close to the railing again. He could still remember the glimpses he’d seen of Stertes’ true form. All those thin, see-through fins, that pale blue and turquoise, like his hair. Having Stertes’ attention was a bit like having a knife tip pressed to his cheek.

‘I’m not sad,’ Mosk said.

‘But you _are,’_ Stertes said, lifting an eyebrow. ‘Dear thing, can I not help? Is it about your companion? I thought you’d only had a lover’s quarrel. Is it more than that? Let me help. Sea fae are ever so good at such matters.’

‘We didn’t fight,’ Mosk said defensively.

_I’m just not good enough for him, and he punished me._

‘You look so bruised,’ Stertes cried, and he reached out and slid his hand across Mosk’s cheek before Mosk thought to stop him. Fingers brushed over his ear, into his hair, and Stertes’ palm was damp and smelled of the ocean. ‘No one should leave you looking so sad.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘If you were mine, even just for a night, I would never leave you so bereft,’ Stertes said, dropping his hand back to his side. ‘But you are so loyal, aren’t you? Obviously. He must be very special to you. That you would deny a prince, when I already know you find me fair.’

Mosk stubbornly turned to face the sea again, folding his arms on the gunwale. He just wanted to be _alone._ He could still feel Stertes’ touch tingling across his skin.

‘Did you do something bad?’ Stertes said, his voice lower, quieter. ‘You can tell me. We all do bad things sometimes. Some of us are even poisoned inside, and there’s nothing we can do about it.’

‘You too?’ Mosk said, looking at him.

Stertes laughed. ‘Please, not me! But you? Ah, then. Maybe he had his reasons for making you look so lost. It can’t be easy, but perhaps you just have to accept his rejection of you! I’m sure that will help.’

Mosk didn’t know what to do with any of what Stertes said, except that it was so close to the things he told himself that the words folded into him, sinking deep like anchors. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

‘Yeah,’ Mosk said, voice thin.

‘Mm, yes,’ Stertes agreed. ‘Truly, if you care for him alongside whatever poison you carry, perhaps the right answer is to let him leave you. That’s what love is, isn’t it? You have to let go of the ones you love sometimes, and if they _really_ care, they’ll come back.’

Mosk couldn’t see the waves properly. He blinked and blinked, but his eyes remained dry.

Stertes patted his shoulder. Mosk looked at him and thought that Stertes’ smile was meant to be reassuring, even soft, but all Mosk could think was maybe Eran _was_ trying to reject him and that’s why he’d not said anything about Mosk vanishing during their sex. Maybe that was why Eran fell asleep afterwards. Maybe he’d noticed things were wrong and he wanted that. Why wouldn’t he? Mosk had lied to him, kept lying to him, and trying to tell the truth now after the damage had been done…what would that achieve?

A commotion nearby and Mosk and Stertes turned. Mosk’s mouth dropped open as he saw one fae sprinting like their life depended on it, and then behind them, running far too fast for it to be anything other than a hunt, came _Ash._

‘ _That_ looks very entertaining,’ Stertes said breathlessly. ‘Let’s go!’

He grasped Mosk’s wrist by the rope and dragged him, both of them running together. A defensive scream, more shouting, people trying to get Ash to stop whatever he was doing. They ran up the stairs onto another landing, Ash had pinned a fae by their chest to a wall, fingers stroking down their throat, eyes glowing, teeth sharpened, far more monstrous than Mosk thought possible.

Gwyn bolted towards them, but Mosk could tell it would be too late. He tried to jerk away from Stertes’ grip, he wanted to help.

‘It’s not safe,’ Stertes said, excited.

‘I have to do s-’

A huge fluttering, the Raven Prince flew up from beside the ship as though he’d come from the very waves. He shifted into human form while in the air, dropped to the deck and marched towards Ash without missing a beat, heels clicking sharply. Everyone moved out of his way.

‘No,’ the Raven Prince said, taking Ash by the collar and pulling him back with surprising strength. Ash let loose a growl so deep and threatening that several fae who had been approaching fell back. Mosk felt it in his _bones._

The Raven Prince spoke a sentence in that language he’d previously used to paralyse Eran, to force Mosk to speak, to destroy Gwyn’s sword. It made Ash stagger backwards into the Raven Prince, a desperate sound coming out of his throat. The fae he’d attacked sagged into the wall, and Ash swung his head to stare at them, eyes still bright, but horror on his face instead of hunger.

Gwyn arrived, taking the scene in, deep blue eyes widening as he looked at Ash in disbelief.

‘I couldn’t stop,’ Ash wheezed. ‘I couldn’t stop.’

‘You are the worst excuse for an Unseelie fae I have _ever_ seen,’ the Raven Prince said, throwing him down at Gwyn’s feet and then wiping his hand on his black shirt.

‘You’re gonna have to lock me up,’ Ash said to Gwyn. ‘I said it, didn’t I? I said-’

The Raven Prince made a sound of disgust.

‘You are an Inner Court fae with more than enough capacity to control your own bloodlust. Your problem, Glashtyn _,_ is you have no ability to own yourself, you misunderstand your monstrousness, and through your cowardice, your waterhorse breaks through uncontrolled.’

‘It really is him,’ Stertes breathed beside Mosk. Mosk tried to shake himself away from Stertes, but he wouldn’t let him go. When Gwyn looked over, he saw the way Stertes gripped Mosk’s wrist and frowned, but then turned back, the Raven Prince still talking to Ash.

‘Why do you think I have no patience for you?’ the Raven Prince said. ‘Even your predecessors, vile sexual sadists that they were, were still possessed of stronger heart and conviction than you. Own yourself, Glashtyn.’

‘Do you think I don’t realise I’m a monster?’ Ash said, as he stood shakily, broken out of whatever frenzied hunting instinct had ruled him before. ‘I’ve helped _others_ accept-’

‘I’ve seen this before. It’s always tedious,’ the Raven Prince said, rolling his eyes. ‘Let me make it plain. Of course you accept your monstrousness, you overcompensate with saccharine attempts to be the nicest Unseelie fae in the history of Unseelie fae, in the human world no less. Oh yes, I’m aware of your incarnation, a smear across the very heart of what it is to be Unseelie. You – young waterhorse – cannot accept your own _goodness._ I don’t know what it is in you, or in you growing up with the Each Uisge, that has done this to you. But if you accepted what it truly was to be Unseelie, if you communicated with your Glashtyn self, this would never have happened. And you cannot learn it now, on a ship, while your body tries to convince you that you are dying of starvation when you are not.’

Ash stared like he’d never seen him before, and Gwyn was still frowning, looking between the both of them.

‘You not only know you’re a monster,’ the Raven Prince said, his voice sweet now, no longer the stern lecture of before. ‘You think you’re the worst there _ever_ was. And so? Who cares? But you are aboard the Mantissa and this is not your hunting ground. My magic will hold your bloodlust for a week, but I do not relish having to do what you should have learned to do three thousand years ago. That’s just lazy. How anyone who professes to care about you has let you get away with this for so long is beyond me. It likely has something to do with that dra’ocht of yours, constantly convincing everyone – including yourself – that all is well when it is not.’

The Raven Prince waved his hand like he couldn’t believe he’d talked so much about something he really did seem to be bored by. Seconds later he folded up into raven form and flew up to the crow’s nest, cawing like he was irritated.

‘I…’ Ash said, staring up.

‘I don’t think I like the way he pretends he knows everything,’ Gwyn said, even as Ash uncertainly picked at his shirt, then looked around, presumably for the fae that he’d attacked. But the fae had slipped away and Ash stared down at the ground. He looked crushed.

‘Please lock me up,’ Ash said.

‘I think, instead, we’ll have a talk,’ Gwyn said, ‘and we can discuss your options.’

‘Seriously? After what-?’

‘No one was hurt,’ Gwyn said. ‘Come along. They’ll know to be careful around you from now on.’

‘Fucking hell,’ Ash said, staring around at the fae watching him. ‘Fucking hell.’

Gwyn turned back to look at Stertes and Mosk once more, but then he was gone, escorting Ash with a hand at the small of his back. A few minutes passed, the fae that had gathered began to disperse. Stertes finally let go of the rope at Mosk’s wrist.

‘It seems there is trouble in paradise all over,’ Stertes murmured to himself. ‘It’s more than the sea plaguing those waterhorses.’

‘Yeah,’ Mosk said, stepping far enough away that Stertes couldn’t easily reach his wrist anymore. He didn’t leave. He still couldn’t believe that Stertes sought him out and seemed to want his company.

‘Incredible,’ Stertes said. ‘Has he been like this the entire time? The Glashtyn?’

‘No,’ Mosk said. ‘That’s the first time he’s done something like that.’

‘I wonder how the Raven Prince knew to come.’

‘He just knows things like that,’ Mosk said.

‘No one _just knows things_ like that,’ Stertes said, laughing softly, his full mouth pulling into a smile. But then he looked askance, his eyes bright. ‘Oh, do you think he does? That’s a rare talent.’

‘But isn’t he from the _land?’_ Mosk said, faintly mocking.

Stertes shrugged. ‘Bird fae are different. They are from the _sky._ They don’t like the land much either. Haven’t you ever noticed? Even his boots are designed to keep his feet a little off the ground. Besides, it’s the Raven Prince! My Uncle, Turus, met him a few times and spoke of him highly and said he was one of the very few reasons anyone should ever bother to leave the sea. Anyway, I must go speak to my advisors. I’ll see you soon!’

Stertes blew a kiss before walking away, and Mosk stood there, shocked. The last person to blow him a kiss was Chaley, but he knew Stertes meant something very different to sisterly love, with his gesture.

*

That evening, Mosk was half-asleep when he heard the knock on his door, startling. The door opened, Eran coming in holding two canisters of sap, and something in Mosk’s chest clenched hard.

‘Hi,’ Eran said. ‘I didn’t see you this morning.’

Mosk watched as Eran walked over and handed him a canister. He took it automatically, unsettled, cold inside.

‘Are you okay?’ Eran asked.

‘Yeah,’ Mosk said. ‘Just…thinking about things.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘It’s private,’ Mosk said.

He didn’t know how to tell Eran what he was thinking. He was meant to stop lying, but surely it would hurt them both if Mosk explained something that Eran already knew; that Eran didn’t want him anymore. That would force Eran to confirm it, and it was obvious he didn’t want to be that mean. It wasn’t that Eran didn’t _want_ him exactly, he just didn’t want all the wrong versions of Mosk. So Mosk just had to be better than who he was.

He’d never done it before, but he could try.

‘How are you?’ Mosk made himself ask. That’s what people did, wasn’t it? They didn’t think about themselves all the time. They weren’t so selfish.

‘Me?’ Eran said, and then sat on Mosk’s bed and smiled gently. ‘I was a little worried when you were gone. But I spent some time with Julvia today, and I did some exercises in my room, and walked around the ship. I don’t know that I’ll ever want to come onto the sea again once I’m off it, but the Mantissa is probably the best place to experience it.’

‘I think so,’ Mosk said.

He wanted to care more, but he felt like something was closing up and shrivelling inside of him. He couldn’t make himself be as attentive as he knew he should be. Even as he watched Eran, he knew he could never be a better version of himself. That Mosk didn’t exist.

‘I hope you weren’t too worried,’ Mosk said.

‘I feel a lot better for seeing you now.’

Maybe that meant Mosk was doing something right, but for some reason, seeing Eran looking almost content hurt more.

‘I’m glad,’ Mosk said. Truthfully, he didn’t feel much at all.

‘Do you want me to stay longer? You look tired.’

‘I’m- Yeah. Tired, I guess.’

Eran leaned forwards, like he was going to grasp Mosk’s arm, or kiss him on the cheek, and he cringed away, drawing his wrist backwards. Stertes had touched the rope. It felt dirtied. Mosk needed to shower the touch away, and then it could be Eran’s again.

‘Sorry,’ Eran said abruptly, stilling. ‘You don’t like that.’

‘It’s okay,’ Mosk said. ‘That’s…not your fault.’

_It’s mine._

‘I think I need to get some more sleep,’ Mosk said, slowly turning the canister of sap in his hand. Whatever had been growing between them, had he killed it? Had he stepped on a sapling without realising? He couldn’t help but think if he’d been a proper dryad, with all of his abilities, he would have avoided it. But would he? Hadn’t he proven he was like this even before?

‘Of course!’ Eran said, looking concerned, confused. Mosk couldn’t bear that gaze, he looked at the eyeliner beneath his eyes and wanted to beg Eran to let him watch when he applied it. But it wasn’t really eyeliner, it was ceremonial, and it was special to him, and Mosk was the person who ruined those things.

‘Yeah,’ Mosk said, feeling like it hurt far too much to make his voice sound normal. ‘Yeah, but…when I’ve slept, maybe I could come to your room?’

‘I’d really like that,’ Eran said. ‘I feel like we need to talk? Or maybe I just need to take your mind off things.’

‘Maybe,’ Mosk said.

Eran hesitated, like he wanted to do something or say something, and then he stood and left. Mosk felt hungry, but he couldn’t bring himself to have any of the sap.

After a few minutes he got up and quietly closed the bedroom door behind him as he left down the corridor. Even if Stertes found him, even if the night was bad, he couldn’t spend it alone in his room knowing that Eran was just across the hall.

*

It was raining, there were hardly any fae about. Mosk knew that many sea fae didn’t enjoy the rain, preferring to be fully enveloped in water or air, and finding a world of tiny drops of freshwater aggravating. It drove them down into the flooded levels right at the bottom of the Mantissa, or directly into the ocean, many of them finding refuge in the circular portholes cut into the ship while waiting for the rain to end.

Mosk loved the rain. There weren’t many plants that didn’t ache for it, or glory in it when it finally came. He spread his fingers and walked quietly, his feet bare, his ugly, large coat left back in his room. Soon his clothing dripped, but he liked the black-grey skies and the wet wood, the way everything gleamed like the back of a seal or a dolphin. He’d seen them now. He knew how they could shine.

The Raven Prince had told him his heartsong was coming back and that it was already _something._ It wasn’t a formless ambiguous mess, it was _something._ Mosk didn’t know, couldn’t feel it and had no idea how to look after it. Sometimes he craved so badly to be mindless again. Being a person was exhausting, he hated it.

The sails were furled, water dripping from the bunched fabric. Mosk stared at the crow’s nest as he passed it, then kept walking. Eran was right about one thing, the Mantissa was the best place to experience the sea and he’d grown to love the ship. The ocean reminded him of the Aur forest, the ship had taught him balance, it was the place where he’d fallen in love.

Mosk stumbled, then forced himself to keep walking.

‘No,’ Mosk said to himself. ‘I don’t do that. I _can’t.’_

A slow anger that he’d even dare use those words in his mind. What right did he have to them? He shook his head and water flew about, and then he kept walking and focused only on his breathing and the rain.

The afterdeck was empty, but even so, Mosk approached a huge pile of fishing nets, buoys and planks of wood and driftwood. He sat and leaned his back into the rope and lifted his head to the rain. No one would find him here unless they were looking for him. He was sandwiched between the curving wall of the gunwale and the pile of ropes and wood. He could see a little through one or two patches of netting, but otherwise everything was too dense.

He liked to hide. It felt better than being exposed all the time.

An hour passed when Mosk heard footsteps and he looked through the peephole of netting to see the Unseelie King walking up to the railing and leaning against it, placing his hands upon it like Mosk often did. His golden hair was saturated, plastered to his head, so Mosk realised he must have been walking around in the rain for a while, because the rain was light now, far too light to make Gwyn’s hair that wet. Gwyn’s breath misted and after a moment he pursed his lips and blew out a plume like it was smoke.

It reminded Mosk of Eran.

The rain turned to misting, tiny droplets that didn’t feel like anything at all. Mosk watched the King, and he was about to get up and say he was there when he heard the clicking of heeled boots across the wood and then to Mosk’s amazement, the Raven Prince stood alongside Gwyn. He did not place his hands on the gunwale. He had them folded behind his back.

‘Nights like this call the wild things out, allows them to fall into their melancholy. Is that what you’re doing, Gwyn ap Nudd?’

‘I just like the rain,’ Gwyn said.

Mosk was so close. He let his breath go shallow and light. Surely they knew he was there? Maybe they didn’t care. Maybe Mosk wasn’t important enough for them to care.

‘You owe me a story,’ the Raven Prince said.

Mosk saw Gwyn lean forwards, surprised at the smile on his face. It didn’t look brash or threatening, but private and even warm. After a moment, the Raven Prince chuckled and Gwyn’s smile broadened.

‘Tell me,’ Gwyn said, ‘the exact nature of what I owe you again? I’ve forgotten.’

‘Ah,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘Here I was hoping you were too stupid to notice there was never any debt at all.’

‘I pay attention to my debts,’ Gwyn said. ‘I have learned that one the hard way.’

‘You too? Indebted to Olphix and Davix? Their debts are even more of a plague than the ice everyone talks about.’

Gwyn was silent for a long time. Mosk wondered why Gwyn was so reluctant to share _anything_ with the Raven Prince. Gwyn was so wary around him, and the Raven Prince seemed bizarrely patient with it. For all the insults, Mosk knew that the Raven Prince could probably just make Gwyn talk to him with that strange language of his.

‘Kabiri,’ Gwyn said finally.

It was the Raven Prince’s turn to be silent, until he stared fixedly ahead and said sharply: ‘Cadmilus? _You?_ How, pray tell, did you manage that?’

‘Ah, well,’ Gwyn laughed to himself. ‘I was underfae, I was dying, and I wasn’t strong enough to make a fire to die beside. So instead of praying for a healing god, I prayed for fire. I wasn’t thinking straight. But Kabiri likes to pretend I wanted him all along.’

‘That explains the wretched mark he left upon you. Left you a sweet something to remember him by? What a brutal token. What debt do you have with Kabiri?’ the Raven Prince said, his voice quiet instead of accusing.

‘Two, actually. To release Ifir from the Unseelie prison and do well by him, after he mutinied against me – something I was planning on doing anyway. And the last is being fulfilled now – to take Eran on this journey and protect him as best as I can.’

‘He’s chosen you as a guardian for the last ambaros?’ the Raven Prince said. ‘Interesting. The fool must have been out of options.’

‘Yes, I believe I said the same thing to Kabiri.’

The Raven Prince laughed, the sound cutting through the night. Where Augus’ courtier voice was gentle and soft, even when he was delivering sharp words, the Raven Prince’s voice was hard, bright, even coarse. Mosk marvelled at the fact that he was watching a former Unseelie King talk to the current Unseelie King, and they weren’t even acting like they hated each other.

‘Why didn’t you use or train your magic?’ the Raven Prince said.

‘You already have an answer to this.’

‘No, I have what you tell others, which is not the entire truth. You must have _known_ how strong you were before you damaged it all with ignorance. You must have been able to sense how you choked the life out of yourself, leaving a half-dead thing inside you. For it to be as strong as it is even now… It is the ugliest thing I have ever seen.’

‘Usually people say that about my face.’

‘They have not seen your magic,’ the Raven Prince said, facing the sea once more. ‘Is it really so tedious a reason as ‘your parents didn’t let you?’ You, who if you were _truly_ their slave, would never have ended up King of the Unseelie? I want to know.’

‘You’re so used to getting what you want,’ Gwyn said.

‘Not with you,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘I could compel it. I could force it. I could charm it. See the respect I am awarding you – against my better judgement – and reward that, if you please. Think about what it should have been, you as my apprentice, me as your master and protector. Even if you loathe the idea of it, you know you were meant to have loved me if your parents hadn’t meddled.’

Gwyn was silent, waves slapped against the side of the Mantissa, and then he cleared his throat and said: ‘I modelled so much of the new Unseelie Court after your Court. I half-suspect this is the only reason why fae love it so.’

The Raven Prince’s hands, unmoving behind his back, now twitched.  

‘This is not what I’ve asked you to tell me,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘Wild creature, I am no hunter of white stags in the dark, I am a fool raven, not even the first trickster, and I am _proud_ that you are so cautious, but I want to know.’

Gwyn made a short sound of frustration in his throat, walked a few steps away and then came back, glaring at the Raven Prince.

‘Really?’ Gwyn said. ‘You can guess it, can’t you? You’ll find it pathetic, anyway. If you wish to mock me, you have enough fodder to use without this too.’

‘Tell me,’ the Raven Prince insisted. Mosk thought maybe he was using some of his glamour, but he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t feel that sparkling, eldritch charm. He loved the Raven Prince’s glamour. But even without it he wanted to tell the Raven Prince something he didn’t have an answer for. Perhaps it was just that he wasn’t used to hearing someone as powerful and magical as the Raven Prince asking for the same thing over and over again. Mosk was frustrated on his behalf.

‘What you did to Augus was completely unforgiveable,’ Gwyn said. ‘I will never trust you.’

‘Good,’ the Raven Prince said.

After a moment Gwyn added: ‘It is only your record of rule and the possibility that you may help us that stays my hand in killing you outright.’

‘I want to know, Gwyn,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘I’ve said I want to know three times now, do not reject my artless attempt to thrice coax you.’

There was a long silence. Mosk was sure that the conversation would end, but then Gwyn turned and looked at the Raven Prince and shook his head like he couldn’t believe he was about to give him what he wanted.

‘I spent three thousand years suppressing my light,’ Gwyn said finally. ‘Three thousand, after destroying half of the first An Fnwy estate before the age of ten with it. The consequences of that may have been child’s play for you to navigate, but they weren’t for me. Once, in the second estate when I was older and my light was pushed deep within me, I remember Mages came to visit Crielle, as they so often did. One told her that for all they loved magic, most of the training went into lifelong suppression, learning the right moments to unleash it.’

‘Ah,’ the Raven Prince said, like he understood. ‘But you suppressed it anyway.’

‘Unknowingly,’ Gwyn said, shrugging. ‘It didn’t feel unbearable like the Mage made it sound. And I didn’t think I could bear it. Consciously doing that to myself with magic, when I did it with my light every day.’

‘It is the most unbearable part of becoming a Mage,’ the Raven Prince said slowly. ‘Especially in the beginning, when all you wish to do is use your magic all the time. To learn that it gets stronger when you control it… Yes, maybe you would have hated it.’

They fell into silence, until:

‘I only want your story more now,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘I am certain Old Pete would make quite something of it.’

‘Oh, he tries,’ Gwyn said, laughing. ‘He keeps wanting me to clarify things for him, but I tell him it’s a story and it’s his job to make it up. I look forward to the day when he no longer lives in the Court.’

The Raven Prince’s hands dropped to his side. ‘Explain _that?’_

‘The Coalition of the Classless?’ Gwyn said. ‘Surely you-’

‘I have been a dumb fucking bird for some time,’ the Raven Prince said, ‘and while I am a genius and _quite_ astute, I am not the god that people like to think I am.’

‘You like it when they think that,’ Gwyn said, smiling at him like they were companions and not near enemies.

‘Most of the time, _yes,’_ the Raven Prince said. ‘But not now. Tell me about this Coalition of the Classless, and how it’s connected to _Old Pete_ being in your Unseelie Court.’

Gwyn sighed, then started talking about things Mosk knew hardly anything about. A Coalition of some of the most powerful classless fae in the world – split equally into Seelie and Unseelie – helmed by the Nain Rouge on one side, and Marika of the _daoine sidhe_ on the other. That Coalition Gwyn secretly organised, that came together to place sanctions on both Courts to force them into peacetime, and had only been shattered when Olphix took their powers.

‘You didn’t choose to helm the Unseelie side yourself, knowing how Albion would have hated that? Are you Unseelie at all? Tell me you have enough spite in your heart to have wanted it.’ 

‘Oh, I wanted it,’ Gwyn said. ‘But it wouldn’t have been fair, and if it wasn’t fair, it wouldn’t have been successful. Augus said I was too Seelie, but he didn’t see the long game, which is that if it was successful, then that is where I get to satisfy my spite against Albion. Sometimes it is worth passing up the small, petty moments in exchange for the larger ones.’ 

‘I always recommend seizing both,’ the Raven Prince said, his voice low. ‘But I take your point. So you, Gwyn ap Nudd, once-King of the Seelie Court, a great masquerading fae, then Unseelie King and vector of war and death, forced peace upon both Courts and took Old Pete into your Court as insurance.’ 

‘Yes,’ Gwyn said. 

‘You, the great War General of Quercus, who then became the King of War, a martial King – for they have all talked about it when I’ve asked them to tell me – this is what you brought into the world. Peace. And you said as well that you wanted to remove the fixed statuses that Olphix and Davix forced upon us all. To what…battle the war between classes, Gwyn? You, the dupe of the An Fnwy estate? But, goodness, isn’t it _dissonant_ in that mind of yours?’

‘Sometimes,’ Gwyn said honestly, like he didn’t much care.

‘It should have been different,’ the Raven Prince muttered, pushing himself onto the gunwale and sitting, swinging his legs. ‘You should have been in the Unseelie Court from the beginning. The things we could have done with you.’

‘But it’s not different,’ Gwyn said firmly. ‘Stop imagining a past that you’re more nostalgic for, than the present that you helped birth yourself by indulging the Nightingale for as long as you did. This world you’re in, you helped build it. You had your hands deep within it, turning those around you into marionettes and I know you do it now.’

‘I will always do that,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘But doing it because that is my way, instead of doing it as King, are two different things. Are you not also a different person when you are away from your Kingship? Have you not noticed how it changes you, to rule? Put a crown on the King of the Forest and tell him to lead us, and he will find himself in the world’s longest hunt, and still dead at the end of it.’

‘I hate it,’ Gwyn said.

‘So did I,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘But it needed to be done. You, too, recognised the need and are fulfilling the role. I _hate_ that we have this in common. You really are very boorish most of the time, and these slivers of you being almost graceful only make the rest of your ugliness harsher by comparison.’

‘You know, I came here to have a quiet moment and I think I’m going to go now and find it.’

Gwyn walked off, the Raven Prince laughing softly as soon as he’d turned the corner and was gone. But Mosk knew why the Raven Prince had insulted Gwyn like that. He’d wanted to be left alone, was done with the conversation, and made Gwyn think it was his idea to leave. The Raven Prince had already done this to Mosk a couple of times, stinging him with words instead of just saying what he wanted.  

After a few minutes the Raven Prince whistled a brief, pure melody, bright and flittering and sweet. Then – with the notes still hanging in the air – he turned and walked past Mosk, pausing at the pile of netting, rope and wood.

‘You don’t know that you’re doing it,’ the Raven Prince said, ‘which is the only reason I haven’t skinned you alive, but you use your magic to hide yourself from others. Clever, clever, but sneaky as well, tiny tree. Goodnight, Mosk Manytrees.’

‘Goodnight,’ Mosk whispered. His heart pounded. He couldn’t even _feel_ himself using magic, so how could he be using it?

The Raven Prince walked away, and Mosk leaned back into the ropes, closed his eyes and thought to himself that somewhere else on the ship, Gwyn was finding a quiet moment for himself just like he was.

*

Mosk thought about seeking Davix in his dreams on purpose. He thought about how the dreamwalking happened automatically. Was he looking for his heartsong? The Raven Prince was sure he was already growing another, that it even had a form and a shape, so maybe he kept going back to the ice for Davix. Maybe Davix existed as a ghost so Mosk could make him know what it felt like to be tortured.

But when that venom dripped through him, Mosk shied away from it, scared at how his hands shook with wanting to hurt someone else. He’d always been capable of pettiness and always been vindictive, but what he felt towards Davix, the fear and near-lust to harm him, it made his breath tremble. He wanted to twist Davix out of existence and hear him scream for mercy.

Had he screamed when Mosk killed him? Maybe he had.

But Mosk’s sleep remained free of the ice and Davix, and Mosk continued to scare himself with thoughts of all the ways he’d like to hurt another person. But if Davix was dead, did it even count?

Ondine talked about how dangerous Stertes was, like she had no idea what Mosk could be, how he could behave.

The creeping of guilt wouldn’t leave him either. What if Eran was upset to learn that Stertes was flirting with him and Mosk wasn’t trying harder to say no?

_That’s because you ruin and hurt things. That’s all you do. That’s why your family isn’t here right now to tell you better._

Mosk pulled the shell out of the top drawer of the cabinet. The moss curled tightly to it, far denser than usual. Moss picked it off with his nails and then for the first time since it had started growing the moss, he placed it on top of cabinet, instead of back in the drawer. He traced the spiral, looked at the strange alphabet, wondered if the shell had been at all magical when he’d been given it.

Mosk couldn’t tell the difference between his magic and his abilities as an Aur dryad. He always thought those two things would feel distinct.

But he couldn’t even tell when he was growing moss on the shell. He could no longer hear the trees. He knew that he would never hear them again. It wouldn’t matter how strong or powerful he became, he’d lost a sense, and he could grieve it and rail against it and hit trees for not speaking to him, but they probably were speaking and he just couldn’t hear them.

He wished, not for the first time, that he’d lost the ability to hear everything else. He’d give it up in a heartbeat to hear and sense the trees and their knowledge again.

A knock at the door – Eran’s knock, confident and short – and Mosk turned as the door opened. There was something in him that vanished, a tiny leaf flying off in the wind, a knowledge that something between them was gone. Mosk still thought Eran was beautiful, he still wanted to be close to him, but he was too bruised to know what to do with that. It wouldn’t make him feel good anymore, to be close to that beauty and know that he was too awful to keep.

Maybe Eran hadn’t lied to him when he’d said all those nice things, but Mosk had to go turn it into lies anyway.

‘Good morning!’ Eran said. ‘Are you okay? Did you sleep okay?’

‘Yeah,’ Mosk said.

He only noticed how much his heart hurt when Eran was near him. Like it had grown sharp thorns, and tore at him with every pulsing beat.

A clump of moss began to grow from the shell. Mosk sighed, seeing it in the corner of his eye.

Eran walked over and grasped the rope, and it didn’t feel containing or safe. It didn’t even feel like it only belonged to Eran now. Mosk wanted to apologise. He wanted to explain. But he didn’t know how to talk about that without talking about the last time they’d fucked. The time he’d disappeared and Eran had either wanted it, or hadn’t cared, or worse, hadn’t noticed.

‘What is it?’ Eran said, frowning. ‘Mosk, you’ve not been… Is this about the other day? When we…? I know you said you were tired, but is it something else?’

‘No,’ Mosk said, trying to pull his arm free. Eran didn’t let go and Mosk felt cornered, a flash of rage snapping up inside him. ‘Let me _go!’_

Eran let go immediately, raising his hands, wide-eyed. Mosk wanted to laugh. Here he was, confusing Eran, hurting him, doing everything he always did. He could try to be good and he’d always fail. He never wanted to be awful, he always was.

‘I’m _tired,’_ Mosk said.

‘You just said you slept okay,’ Eran said, lowering his hands, looking hurt. But it was exhausting to be like this, to cause things like this in the people he cared about.

‘Please leave me alone,’ Mosk said.

‘We have to talk about this,’ Eran said. ‘If I made a mistake, I’m sorry, I just-’

‘Why do you always think it’s you?’ Mosk said bitterly. ‘We always know it’s me, don’t we? You’ve never needed to apologise for a single thing, and when you have, you’ve done it. You even apologised for Summervale, and I don’t even _remember_ that. You’re not the one who needs to do anything. Just…go away.’

‘Mosk, I’m- Please, can you let me help? What can I do to help?’

Mosk stared at him and felt nothing but flat, black despair.

‘Leave me,’ Mosk said, his voice stronger and more imperious than it had been in over a year. ‘Go and do something that makes you happy for once.’

Eran looked between Mosk and the door, expression twisting. Eran would feel guilty, because he was good and Seelie, but Mosk knew this was the right thing to do.

‘I’m going to come back,’ Eran said. ‘Will you even be here? Or will you be hiding again?’

Eran had come to see him? Even as a spark of hope leapt within, Mosk crushed it.

‘I’ll be around,’ Mosk said. ‘Can you just leave, please?’

Eran looked around the room, like the right thing to do would come to him, but Mosk already knew what to do. Stertes was right, if Mosk really cared for Eran, then he needed to make him leave, make him see that the rest of the world had far more to offer.

When Eran left, Mosk felt a clamouring of pain in his chest that rose, biting at the back of his eyes and throat, but then – mysteriously and with no warning – it evaporated, and he felt nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter, 'Rejection':
> 
> ‘You never steered me in the right direction at all.’
> 
> ‘Oh, suit yourself, you insolent waste of my time,’ Augus said, looking worse for the wear himself. 
> 
> ‘You could have _told_ me this was a possibility, and you-’
> 
> ‘I did,’ Augus said, his voice softer than ever. ‘I did, and I am willing to bet entire sacks of gold that you put aside your common sense and paid attention to your hungry cock instead. I repeatedly told you that while it is a thrill to sate your lust in this manner, it is dangerous to follow lust alone and not temper it. Perhaps I should not have expected more from a fire fae with afrit blood in his veins, but I do expect more from a Seelie fae like you. You are a disappointment, Eran, that you’ll scapegoat the nearest Unseelie fae, then run away from your own problems.’


	16. Rejection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shortish chapter! But we're kicking off into a whole arc of long chapters and pain (I'm so excited lmao but in that way where I'm screaming inside and it's really hard not to just post all the chapters up immediately). 
> 
> Also, for those who aren't on Tumblr, [Faedom Week is coming up this October!](https://faedom-week.tumblr.com/post/187481556087/faedom-week-faedom-week-oct-21st-oct) If you've ever wanted to communicate any fanworks to the Fae Tales universe, no matter what it is, Faedom Week is a great opportunity. :D

_Eran_

*

Eran entered Augus’ room with a carafe of fresh water after knocking on the door. Augus was awake, looking well, reading some thick book on the different kinds of plants found in the ocean. As Augus put it away, sliding a dark green bookmark between the pages, Eran saw the delicate inking of a phosphorescent kelp. The artistry was very good, and Eran wanted to flip through just to look at the illustrations.

‘I was wondering if I could talk to you about something,’ Eran said. ‘Also, I heard about Ash? Is he okay? I thought he’d be here too.’

‘He’s with Julvia,’ Augus said, taking the carafe and pouring himself a glass of water before Eran could do it. ‘He’s doing better. But it’s only temporary.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Eran said, pulling up the chair to its customary place. ‘It must be hard, especially when you’re going through it too.’

Augus quirked an eyebrow in agreement, sipping at the water before placing it back down. He yawned behind his hand, then shifted, looking more awake than before.

‘Is that why you’re not going above?’ Eran said. ‘Because of Ash? Are you worried it will happen to you?’

‘No,’ Augus said. ‘I do not go into frenzies like that without viable food. I expect I will go into a frenzy when I see a human, or humans.’

Eran didn’t like that they had no assurance that any fae would ever see a human again. It must have been agonising to not only have to wait, but to never know if the waiting would ever stop.

‘Gwyn does not wish me to meet with the Raven Prince,’ Augus said. ‘He suspects that the Raven Prince wishes an audience with me. I acceded to Gwyn’s wishes at first, but I’m getting tired of being under perpetual house arrest. Gwyn can try and prevent the wheel of time from turning, but it is my experience that time will still fuck you over, either way.’

‘Gwyn’s making you stay down here?’ Eran said. ‘But… He must be really worried.’

‘He is,’ Augus said. ‘I doubt he’s worried that the Raven Prince will stab me through the heart again, but that he will hurt me simply by existing, with his sharp words. It’s not an unfair assessment, but it’s not something he’ll get to control forever. Now tell me, why are you here?’

Eran shifted uncomfortably on the chair.

‘I think I’ve made a mistake,’ Eran said. ‘A big one.’

Augus waited, looking calm. As Eran struggled to find the words to explain it, his anger crested upwards, firing brightly.

‘But you were the one who encouraged me onto this path!’ Eran stood, pacing. ‘I don’t know why I listened to you. I had my doubts, I should have paid attention to them all along.’

‘Ah,’ Augus said. ‘Perhaps you’d best explain what happened.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘I don’t have the energy or inclination to listen to you yell at me for something you’ve done wrong, when I explained to you – more than once – that it is normal sometimes for these things to go wrong. Especially in the beginning. So if this is going to be a conversation, then you may stay. If you wish to keep yelling, go aboveboard and do it there.’

Eran walked back to the chair and sat down abruptly. It was hard to sit still. He wanted to run and find Mosk and make everything okay, but he knew just confronting him wasn’t doing anything and was maybe making things worse. He’d never talked to anyone like Mosk before. Everyone he knew back home kicked up into strong emotion so often that it was rare for things to be swept away, kept hidden. Fire was meant to shed light on something, even if it burned too brightly. Mosk concealed so much of himself, Eran had no experience with it.

‘Tell me,’ Augus said, shifting in the bed and then folding his legs. His shoulders rested against the headboard, wet hair tied back in a ponytail. It looked recently brushed.

‘I thought it would be obvious,’ Eran said, ‘because it’s always been obvious in the past, when he sort of checks out. But I think there was a chance he could’ve been checked out the entire time we were…doing what we were doing? But- He’s been weird ever since. He won’t _talk_ to me. He won’t-’

‘I feel like this is the curse I laid on myself when I decided to step into this mess,’ Augus said. He pressed his fingers to his forehead and then gestured towards Eran. ‘Start from the beginning.’

‘I did that thing we talked about,’ Eran said, looking away. Sex wasn’t shameful, but it was hard to admit he enjoyed tormenting Mosk the way he did, especially now that it had done something terrible. Maybe something irreversible. ‘Where I bring him close to orgasm but don’t let him… Look, do I _have_ to talk about this?’

‘Yes,’ Augus said. ‘It’s called edging.’

‘Listen, I don’t care about what it’s-’

His mouth snapped shut at the look on Augus’ face. He forced himself to take several deep breaths. Now that he’d given himself permission to worry about it, he realised it was really getting to him. The idea that he’d hurt Mosk somehow, or not _noticed…_

‘It was after we’d had an argument,’ Eran said. ‘Not immediately after. We’d talked and made up. Or I thought we had, but…’

‘What was the argument about?’

‘He kept lying to me about really important things.’

‘Oh no,’ Augus said in a flat voice. ‘An Unseelie fae. Lying to you. Horror.’

‘He lied to all of us about the dreams with Davix! You don’t think that was something he should’ve told someone?’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Augus said. ‘Would it have been helpful for him to tell us? Certainly. _Should_ he have? Self-preservation is an important quality and I think you’ll find we value it over _honour.’_

‘That Mage is the reason my _entire_ family is dead,’ Eran said hoarsely. ‘My _people.’_

‘In fact, I think you’ll find it’s Davix’s powers _and_ Mosk’s heartsong together, that is likely why your entire family is dead,’ Augus said. ‘In which case I _definitely_ wouldn’t have told _you_ that I’d started having secret mysterious dreams where I go and visit the ice and the Mage responsible for the death of your people.’

Augus sighed.

‘He came to visit, the other day. I thought it was suspicious, because I didn’t think him capable of having that sort of concern for other people. We chased him out in under two minutes, I believe.’

‘Chased him out?’

‘We accused him of being a spy for the Raven Prince,’ Augus said, smiling, eyes closing. ‘He didn’t like it. Truthfully, it’s entirely possible that he just _likes_ the Raven Prince. I used to.’

‘Used to?’

Augus’ smile disappeared, but he didn’t open his eyes. ‘Mosk may have the kind of personality that the Raven Prince finds acceptable.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘The Raven Prince prefers the company of the solitary and the reclusive,’ Augus said, looking towards the wall beside his bed. ‘Those who are wry, bitter or even vengeful. Fae who have a core of something bright and hard inside of them, like a diamond. Mosk, too, is getting his abilities and his magic back, is he not? It’s easy to imagine the Raven Prince is always scheming, and in some ways he is, but there are times when he wishes to simply be himself.’

‘Around Mosk,’ Eran said, frowning. ‘When he’s one of the most powerful people what, in the world? And he’d choose _Mosk?’_

‘What makes you think that Mosk isn’t meant to be one of the most powerful people in the world?’ Augus said so matter-of-factly that it was like a blow. ‘Eran, he is a seventh son of a seventh son, he survived Olphix and he _killed Davix_ without even knowing how, at a time when he’d been – from all accounts and purposes – tortured, stripped of his magic, his ability to feed, his dryad powers. He still killed Davix. If you spend too much time around Mosk, you will come to believe his rhetoric about himself, and that’s dangerous.’

Eran ran his hand over his trimmed beard, his neck. Laid out like that, it seemed so obvious. Even the way Mosk had so easily grown plants on the inside of the cupboard, like it was nothing at all. It was wondrous, but Eran hadn’t given it much thought, he was just happy that Mosk was sharing something he’d previously kept concealed for so long.  

‘Gwyn is in two minds about him,’ Augus said. ‘But he’s always been that way around people who aren’t physically strong. He still thinks the rapier is a weapon for the weak.’

Eran smiled as Augus laughed to himself. But then he thought of Mosk, and he forced himself to take a deep breath. For all that he wanted to talk about anything else but this, he came to talk about _this._  

‘He seemed to like it,’ Eran said firmly. ‘The edging. He _responded_ physically. He came at the end. But when we’ve done other things, there’s been this really obvious sense of connection. At least to me? And I thought we had it then, but maybe I was just assuming we did, because he was reacting. He didn’t tell me no, even.’

‘He didn’t beg you to stop?’ Augus said, eyes widening. Eran realised with a sinking heart that no, Mosk had hardly spoken at all. Except to thank him at the end, more than once. That hadn’t really been like him either. Why would he say thank you?

‘No,’ Eran said. ‘He should have, right? And he _thanked_ me at the end. Which now that I think about it… And he asked me if I liked it.’

Augus’ expression turned faintly troubled, and Eran didn’t like that at all. Panic knocked away inside of him.

‘What did I do wrong?’ Eran said.

‘Tch, let me think.’

‘He was really distant in the beginning too,’ Eran said, staring down at the floor, hunching forwards. ‘I thought he needed to be coaxed out of it, but I think sometimes I want certain things from him more than he wants to give them. He just…did whatever I said. But I knew he was in a quiet mood. But he’s- He’s like that a lot. And I’ve been able to get him out of it before. He’d hate this. He’d hate me talking to you about this. By Kabiri.’

‘I don’t care about that,’ Augus said dismissively, eyebrows knitted together. ‘It disturbs me that he didn’t beg you to stop. I think your instincts are correct, and that he did find a way to disconnect from what you were doing.’

‘But he wasn’t numb like he was with the people in Summervale,’ Eran said. ‘He wasn’t _empty.’_

Eran felt sick and crushed at once. What if he’d destroyed something? How could he not have paid more attention? Was he really so confident in his own abilities? Just because he’d managed to not make a mess of things less than a handful of times?

‘I can’t believe I did this,’ Eran breathed, covering his eyes with his palm.

‘The melodrama is boring,’ Augus said, and Eran looked up, incensed. Augus tapped his knee slowly, looking off, and then he bit his lower lip. ‘You made a mistake, possibly several, but you will prove yourself by how you manage them. Mosk is a poor communicator. You cannot expect to perfectly understand what is happening every time, and you are still learning how to observe him.’

Augus reached over for his cup of water, made of shell, and drank from it deeply, reaching up to feel his hair. But it looked damp, there was a trickle of water that had made its way down his forehead and alongside one ear.

‘I think…’ Augus said to himself, ‘that he is perhaps…’

‘Perhaps _what?’_

‘There are some you cannot do certain activities with,’ Augus said. ‘That is normal. There is a certain kind of personality that does not respond well to edging, they will perceive it as a form of rejection. Orgasm denial will be the same. I’ve had clients for whom they will endure nearly any literal torture, but withholding their own pleasure from them will make them shut down. It is about deserving, and the perception they have that they do not deserve pleasure, and therefore, the withholding of it reinforces that they know they don’t deserve it. Even if it comes later. By then, it’s often too late, and the rejection has occurred in their minds.’

‘But I’ve…I’ve done similar with him before,’ Eran said. It didn’t matter though. Before must have been different, because all of Augus’ words were resonating deep inside him, a horrid feeling stirring as a result.  

‘Not every situation is the same every time,’ Augus said. ‘Not everything that you do once will create the same response later. You know that. We talked about this.’

‘Him thanking me after,’ Eran said despairingly. ‘That just reinforces your theory, doesn’t it?’

‘It does,’ Augus said.

‘He’s been avoiding me ever since.’

‘Well, he would,’ Augus said, smiling thinly. ‘I would also avoid someone who didn’t think I innately deserved pleasure. Actually, no, I don’t really care about that, I can give pleasure to myself. I’m not insecure. But he is. Perhaps moreso than anyone realised. Even how he reacted when he came to visit… Ah, I should have seen it for what it was, but I haven’t been at my best at perceiving others since I lost my first heartsong. I certainly haven’t been at my best on the Mantissa.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Eran said. ‘I can’t just _talk_ to him. He shuts me down. He doesn’t listen. I even asked if it was to do with what we did, I _apologised,_ and he told me that it was his fault anyway, if anything was wrong at all, and then he _dismissed_ me like it was an order and told me to go and do something that made me happy for once. That’s what he said! I can’t fix this.’

‘Not if you’re intent on acting like a juvenile about it,’ Augus said derisively. ‘Oh, _poor you,_ you made a _mistake._ It won’t be your last. I doubt it will even be the worst.’

‘I knew I should’ve taken things slower.’

‘How slow?’ Augus laughed outright. ‘We are heading towards the end of the world, we are – all of us – in grave danger. There is _no way_ Gwyn can get his light back, and _no way_ he can leave it with Olphix. Mosk wishes to die yet is uncommonly powerful. The Raven Prince has returned, Stertes is aboard the Mantissa, and at some point Gwyn will see that the Seelie Court will not give him the answers that he hasn’t found yet. So how slow do you want to make this last, Eran? Years? How long do you really think we have?’

Eran stared at him, shocked at the outburst, even as Augus glared back. He’d not known Augus to rant like that, and he felt his inability to help, to do more, eating at him. Augus’ shoulders dropped and he laughed tiredly.  

‘Do you want my advice? Force him to talk to you before he acts out self-destructively, which he surely will. Offer him opportunities to serve you. I don’t know, tell him to brush your hair sometimes, or dress you, or make your bed. Give him a responsibility that ties him to you, because he will not miraculously believe he deserves _anything_ just because you tell him so, but service is purpose, and that can provide him something in the interim.’

‘Make him serve me,’ Eran said, feeling like that would be the worst thing to ask for, on top of everything else he’d done. ‘You have no idea what you’re doing.’

Eran stood, running his hands down his shirt several times, feeling like he’d been betrayed.

‘You never steered me in the right direction at all.’

‘Oh, suit yourself, you insolent waste of my time,’ Augus said, looking worse for the wear himself.

‘You could have _told_ me this was a possibility, and you-’

‘I did,’ Augus said, his voice softer than ever. ‘I did, and I am willing to bet entire sacks of gold that you put aside your common sense and paid attention to your hungry cock instead. I repeatedly told you that while it is a thrill to sate your lust in this manner, it is dangerous to follow lust alone and not temper it. Perhaps I should not have expected more from a fire fae with afrit blood in his veins, but I do expect more from a Seelie fae like you. You are a disappointment, Eran, that you’ll scapegoat the nearest Unseelie fae, then run away from your own problems.’

Eran couldn’t believe the way he was being talked to, and then:

‘Get out,’ Augus said coldly. ‘Come back when you’re ready to accept your own role in this in a way that isn’t hampered with your fetters of guilt or your inability to see the truth of what lies before you. It is obvious to everyone that Mosk needs to do some growing up, but young man, you cannot hide your immaturity from me. I do not think you can even hide it from yourself. Go.’

Eran left, closing the door behind him and feeling shaken, like a hard rain had fallen on all the fire inside him.

*

A sea trow guided him to one of the larger, brighter cabins above board, and Eran heard the sound of singing before he even opened the door. The sea trow scampered off, Eran stood there listening to a soft, clear woman’s voice, and then what was unmistakeably Ash, melodic and strong. He waited until the end of the song before knocking, and it was Julvia who came and opened the door, holding a hoop of embroidery in one hand. Beyond her, Ash was sitting on a chair and had a guitar across his thigh, palm still resting on the strings to keep them quiet.

‘Eran!’ Ash called, smiling.

But he looked tired, and as Eran came in, he wondered if it was wise to bury his own sorrow in the sorrows of other people, so he didn’t have to think about his own life.

‘You seem in good spirits,’ Eran said, taking up a third seat. Behind them, many instruments were set upon a stage inlaid with dull green shell. Most of the instruments Eran didn’t recognise, and were clearly meant for the sea and for sea fae.

Julvia and Ash were in the section intended for the audience, making their own entertainment. Julvia sat in her chair, picking up a needle she’d stuck into the side of the chair cushion, and started embroidering again. Beside Ash’s chair was a finished hoop, embroidered all over with tiny, sweet looking flowers, bordering a black, forbidding _FUCK THIS._

Eran stared at it, and Julvia looked at the hoop where it rested against the chair leg.

‘Did you know Ash can embroider?’ Julvia said. ‘Actually, he can do ever so many things. He doesn’t like to talk about it, but he’s very clever.’

‘Hush, Cygnet,’ Ash said, smiling, quietly strumming some chords on the guitar.

‘It’s true though,’ Julvia said, watching her hoop as her fingers moved nimbly. ‘He knows more languages than anyone I know, except Gwyn. Except he keeps calling me a cygnet, and I am older than Gwyn, Augus, Ash and Gulvi, and you and Mosk.’

It was always surprising to learn how old Julvia was, even though she’d told him before. Julvia saw his expression and smiled.

‘I am older than many, actually. I suppose I keep it well-hidden too. Which is why I like Ash, because he is very secretive, and he also likes to seem simpler than he really is.’

‘Can we go back to singing?’ Ash said, shaking the neck of the guitar. ‘Because that was fun. Eran can join in. You have a lovely voice.’

‘Thank you,’ Eran said. ‘I wanted to see… Is everything okay?’

‘Maybe,’ Ash said. ‘I want it to be more than it probably is. We all do. But I’m not locked up, and the fae I tried to attack has come and talked to me about it, which is more forgiving than I would’ve fucking been about the whole thing. I just have to be…careful, I guess. I’m starting to think maybe I should’ve stayed back at the Court, because Augus doesn’t really need my protection, and I’m causing more problems than solutions.’

‘I don’t think that’s true,’ Eran said. Julvia pointed at Eran in what must have been agreement, because she nodded a few times as she kept embroidering. ‘I mean, you could argue that we’ve all caused more problems than solutions, anyway.’

‘I wanted to help,’ Ash said, his blunt claws acting as picks as he moved his fingers so quickly across the strings that Eran couldn’t follow the blur, only the swift, beautiful melody.

Eran didn’t say anything, because Ash closed his eyes and started playing the guitar. Julvia embroidered as the music played, and Ash moved from songs that were unrecognisable to Eran, to complex ballads he thought he recognised. Eran stretched his legs out, pressed back into the chair and looked over to the other instruments. Ash could _play._ Not like someone who did it as a hobby, but like someone who did it all the time. Eran could tell the difference, back home there’d been afrit and ambaros who learned instruments just to help with singalongs, and those who liked the instrument for the sake of the instrument.

It must have been nearly an hour before Ash stopped on a slow song with tender notes that couldn’t have been about anything other than love.

‘They have a violin,’ Julvia said.

‘That’s something I haven’t played for over ten years,’ Ash said. ‘Oh no, wait, there was that time in the Court. The night gardens! God, I’d nearly forgotten. Is that what you’d like, Milady?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Julvia said, changing over the coloured thread she needed, reaching down and sorting through three spools of green that looked nearly identical. As she threaded her needle, Ash was looking through the string instruments, picking one up and grasping a bow that leaned against a rack. He placed his chin against the rest and slid the bow smoothly across the strings. It sounded beautiful already, but Ash made a ‘tch’ noise that was identical to the one Augus made, before turning the pegs to tune it.

‘All right,’ Ash murmured to himself, turning and looking at all the instruments like he was deep in thought. ‘An oldie, but a goodie. Éirí na Gréine it is.’

Ash slid the bow across the strings, one clear note sounding before he launched into a reel clearly intended for dancing. Ash’s foot tapped to the music, Julvia put down her hoop and hummed along, and in minutes the reel was done. Eran applauded, and Ash only laughed, shaking his head.

‘The Gancanagh likes that one,’ Ash said. ‘The Rising of the Sun. Jesus, I hope he’s okay.’

‘I hope so too,’ Eran said.

‘I met him when I was a wee little thing, and he was ageless even then, already in love with Oengus. He had a fiddle and a bow, and he played me many songs by an outcrop of granite and moss, and when I felt that kindling inside of me he stopped and smiled and told me that I couldn’t fall in love with him, it wasn’t allowed. I think we fought then, because I told him I was falling in love with the music, and the Gancanagh took it as such an insult, oh my god.’

Ash laughed to himself.

‘And then I had to learn to play. I remember once, I went and stalked out Hector McAndrew in a pub over and over again, to hear him play, and he noticed my fingers moving along to the note changes and we talked about it over some pints. He taught me about the spirit of the thing.’

‘He wasn’t a fae then?’ Julvia said.

‘Come on, we all know I learned most of what I learned in the human realm,’ Ash said, plucking at the strings.

‘Isn’t it dangerous for you?’ Eran said. ‘In the human realm? Can’t they…trick you or entrap you?’

‘Not like afrit, no,’ Ash said, face creasing in sympathy. ‘We don’t have to worry about those kinds of things. The things humans can use to trap us…they don’t know what they are anymore. Or at least, I haven’t met any of them for a long time. Have you never been over?’

‘I will never go,’ Eran said firmly. ‘Everything I need is here.’

‘Like Mosk,’ Julvia said.

Eran couldn’t force a smile. When Ash came and sat back down again, Eran sighed, he didn’t want another lecture about all the things he was getting wrong.

‘Mosk is sometimes hard to understand,’ Julvia said. ‘Do you think he would ever like to sing with us? Or play an instrument?’

‘I don’t know,’ Eran said. Could Mosk even sing? Eran had never heard him try. Did dryads sing? He thought back to Field at the Many Meadows market, how she’d tipped her cheek to let Eran touch it, her eyes bright and lively. He thought maybe some dryads did sing, but probably not Mosk’s family, and therefore not Mosk either. Because Mosk had never done anything his family hadn’t taught him, except what he’d learned about being fucked after the Mages had tortured him.  

Eran knew deep down it wasn’t that complicated. Augus’ words had shaken something loose, a bruised thing inside him that thought it was unfair that Mosk made things so difficult. A part of him that _did_ follow his own lust at the exclusion of good sense or even awareness. He’d made a choice to do what he’d always done with fucking back home. He wanted to have _fun_ with it. Was that such a bad thing?

Mosk always made it harder. The relationship wasn’t complicated, _Mosk_ was, and Eran felt guilty and awful, but angry and bitter as well.

‘Hey,’ Ash said abruptly, putting the violin down and picking up the guitar again. ‘Do you know the song about the Sounhaqh shvaz and shvod that fell in love?’

‘Yes,’ Eran said, all too willing to forget the conflict inside of him. He leaned forwards. ‘Do you?’

‘Mmhm,’ Ash said, grinning. ‘It so happens that a nhang at the night gardens taught me it a few years ago. Do you want to sing it together? Julvia would love it.’

Eran nodded, happy to drown his feelings in music, especially songs from his region. He was tired of making space for sorrow and grief, he didn’t even want to think about how Sounhaqh was _gone._ He wanted joy for once. He listened to the first notes of the song and heard Ash’s intake of breath before they both sang the first words together. Eran followed along, a distant guilt clinging to his every note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter, 'Just Like You':
> 
> ‘Yeah,’ Mosk said, turning the refilled glass and feeling like the night was passing him by, leaving him behind. He floated above everything, like he was still staring out at the sunset, or up at the stars. Eran didn’t want him, not really, Eran wanted an idealised version of him. Stertes obviously wanted him, but Mosk knew he meant nothing to Stertes. 
> 
> ‘You are so troubled,’ Stertes said. 
> 
> ‘Do you know of any way to take my mind off things?’ Mosk said, pushing the glass away and staring a challenge at Stertes. 
> 
> No one could blame Stertes for this, not when Mosk made it so easy. He waited to feel horror, outrage, a sense of right or wrong, a kind of loyalty or sense of fidelity. 
> 
> He felt nothing.


	17. Just Like You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tag: Infidelity, *very* dubious consent
> 
> Woof, this chapter I've reread more than any other chapter in _The Ice Plague._ Just... all you Raven Prince fans, get ready.

_Mosk_

*

Mosk was learning the Mantissa well, because he was too afraid of Eran finding him in his room and wanting to fuck him again, or worse, _talk._ So he explored at night, he explored during the day, he silently made his way down corridors and hid whenever people came too close, and since they almost never seemed to see or interrupt him, he wondered if he was using magic to hide himself. He couldn’t tell. It felt like _nothing._ It felt like nothing when he grew moss from the shell, it felt like nothing when he made the plants for Eran in the closet, it felt like nothing now.

Maybe he had so much magic because something had scooped out his personality when he was born, so there was nothing to feel.

A spectacular sunset of golds, oranges, pinks and peaches, backlighting clouds that stretched all the way into the night had him staring blankly, uncaring, as several other fae leaned against the railing and waved at whales swimming nearby. Then many of the sea fae disappeared through the holes cut into the ship so they could join them. The House of Atros were friends to all dolphins, whales, porpoises and seals, and since being dragged into House of Atros territory, the Mantissa was regularly visited by these mammals.

Soon, Mosk was one of the few left standing by the gunwale, tiny lights beginning to glow on strings around him, attempting to make up for the loss of the sun, mimicking the stars. The clouds thickened, mist rose up from the sea, clinging to the deck and the waves. It was a more tumultuous night than usual, he could feel the swell around the ship, but even so, sea fae shouted joyfully whenever they surfaced with the whales and dolphins, before diving back underneath.

‘It’s delightful, isn’t it?’ Stertes said, placing light fingertips on Mosk’s shoulder before moving his hand away. ‘Do you drink? I find myself in quite the mood tonight, and we have a very refined sea liquor. I don’t imagine you’ve ever had it.’

‘Is it salty?’ Mosk said, not even looking at the glasses he could see out of the corner of his eye. They were long and fluted, and he thought the liquid might be shining a pale blue. But he pretended to ignore Stertes, who always seemed to know where he was.

‘Oh no,’ Stertes said. ‘It’s a little sweet, a bit tart. We have an underwater fruit called viernen, and from it, we make vier. We have other drinks too, but this is the finest.’

Stertes sipped from his glass, then held the other out towards Mosk.

Mosk took it, thinking of how Eran always handed him the canisters of sap. It didn’t make him feel much, but he thought a normal person might feel like they missed Eran. He had blankness inside him instead.

He tried the vier and was surprised to find it faintly sweet and fragrant, almost floral. He wasn’t practiced at drinking, but he couldn’t taste the sour bitterness of tannins that he could taste in the beer that many bartenders had unnecessarily forced upon him in taverns and pubs. Like they all thought he’d fuck better if he was drunk, when Mosk was good to go whether he was drunk or not.

The blue liquid shimmered as Mosk took another sip, another. He knew why Stertes was here handing him alcohol. As lights swung back and forth in the night breezes, he felt detached about it, even resigned.

‘It matches your hair,’ Mosk said, holding the glass up and studying it. He looked between the two. 

‘It’s pleasant, isn’t it?’ Stertes said.

‘It’s very fine,’ Mosk said, thinking about how his mother used to speak in the Unseelie Court. How she used to speak in general. Ever a diplomat, concerned with how the Aur dryads were represented to the rest of the world, all to keep her precious forest hale.

Mosk smiled. He’d let the Mantissa help him forget the worst of it all. It wasn’t allowed, he should never forget what had been lost because he’d betrayed his family and a Mage who made him pay his debt, punishing his whole family in the process. Mosk was cheating. Why had he ever let himself feel anything good?

‘There is a small group of us,’ Stertes said, ‘this evening, having drinks in the space that Ondine has so graciously set aside for us. It is far humbler than anything I could show you in the sea, but would you like to spend some time with us? There is no pressure to stay if you do not wish to.’

Mosk’s throat and chest were warming. He took another sip of the vier before nodding. When Stertes reached for the rope around his wrist, Mosk jerked it away.

‘I don’t need you to lead me,’ Mosk said.

‘Wonderful,’ Stertes said.

As he was guided away from the gunwale and the lights, the stars and the cavorting dolphins and sea fae, Stertes’ hand came to rest on his shoulder. His touch was light, and Mosk thought this was far more ceremony than he deserved. If only Stertes knew what Mosk had come from, he wouldn’t bother with the vier, the light touches, the diplomacy. Mosk was a free whore, anyone could have him.

He finished the glass of vier before they arrived.

Stertes and his retinue had a decent space to themselves, including one lounge area wreathed with deep green kelp and bright seaweed, a bar and barstools, the floor covered in nearly an inch of water. The sea trickled down the walls, over murals of underwater cities and battles where mers rode on the backs of giant sailfish, tridents and nets in their hands. The whole place smelled strongly of fish, salt, even bitter chemicals. But the vier was poured from beautiful, hand-blown bottles and it was sweet in the mouth.

The seahorse shifters talked to each other in a quiet language, as much hand gesture and finger positioning as it was their gentle murmuring. Other fae sat on couches upholstered in the leather of sea creatures, drinking freely and laughing. None of them said much when Stertes arrived and none of them seemed surprised to see Mosk. More glasses of vier were poured by a quiet, polite bartender, and Mosk let himself be drawn to a table only meant to seat two people, a lamp of gold sitting upon it like the one he’d left in Eran’s room.

‘Are you making it harder for Gwyn to get to the Seelie Court? Are you sabotaging us?’ Mosk said, not really caring about etiquette. What would Stertes do? Get angry at him? Did it even matter?

‘Perhaps,’ Stertes said. ‘I negotiate on behalf of my Uncle Turus, but on behalf of myself too. The sea fae have a long history of being neglected by monarchs who like to conveniently claim they rule us in times of war, but want our weapons and bodies without offering anything other than neglect. But, my dear Mosk, you could simply argue that I make it harder for everyone just by existing. I have that kind of personality.’

‘Me too,’ Mosk said.

Stertes raised his glass in a toast, and Mosk hesitated, then clinked the rim of his glass against Stertes’. They both drank, Stertes never looking away from him, smiling as he lowered his glass.

Warmth suffused Mosk, ignited by the dark blue heat in Stertes’ eyes. Mosk knew it was the vier, but it tasted so mild and inoffensive. When he finished his second glass, he raised his hand to signal the bartender before Stertes could finish the gesture. Stertes dropped his hand, looking pleased enough that Mosk felt a small kindling in response, a yearning.

‘I thought you’d be more reticent to drink,’ Stertes said, a gleam in his eyes. ‘You’d best be careful. The taste is gentle, but its spirit is wild.’

‘Yeah,’ Mosk said, turning the refilled glass and feeling like the night was passing him by, leaving him behind. He floated above everything, like he was still staring out at the sunset, or up at the stars. Eran didn’t want him, not really, Eran wanted an idealised version of him. Stertes obviously wanted him, but Mosk knew he meant nothing to Stertes.

‘You are so troubled,’ Stertes said.

‘Do you know of any way to take my mind off things?’ Mosk said, pushing the glass away and staring a challenge at Stertes.

No one could blame Stertes for this, not when Mosk made it so easy. He waited to feel horror, outrage, a sense of right or wrong, a kind of loyalty or sense of fidelity.  

He felt nothing.

They left the table and the glasses of vier behind, and this time Stertes took him by the hand instead of the rope and led him down a narrow corridor that was bathed in salt water. It rippled and splashed lightly as they walked through it, though it parted far more smoothly for Stertes’ steps than it did for Mosk’s.

Mosk wished he could see beneath the sea, visit their underwater kingdoms. He felt a sudden burst of longing for something he would never know, and it wasn’t helped when he was led into Stertes’ room and saw the chandelier of coral and clinging glowing creatures casting a pale, shimmering blue light onto a large, plush bed, a cabinet decorated with shell jewellery and gauzy transparent silks.

Stertes’ hands were expected as they moved over Mosk’s shirt, taking it off. Mosk let Stertes do what he wanted, neither hindering nor helping, occasionally looking up at the chandelier. He felt less and less, letting the light of phosphorescent creatures burn blue spots into his eyes.

‘I have never been with a seventh son of a seventh son,’ Stertes said as he grasped Mosk’s forearm and traced his fingers along the bark there. Mosk watched. Briefly, he wondered what Eran would do if he knew this was happening. If he saw it. Would he drag Mosk away? Would he punish him again? Was Mosk’s life going to be an endless series of punishments for his personality, his very self? First Olphix, punishing him for his betrayal, and then Eran, punishing him too?

Maybe it was his magic. Maybe he was as poisonous as all the Mages he hated. Maybe that’s why he hated them so much, he saw something in them that had been in him all along.

Stertes drew him to the unmade bed, and Mosk followed, crawling upon sheets that were far softer than anything he’d ever felt before.

Stertes’ full lips tasted of vier and then salt. He kissed hungrily, pressing Mosk’s tongue down with his own as he slid it deep into his mouth. Mosk thought that he was allowing Stertes far more than what he allowed Eran, but it was easy, because nothing mattered. It felt like neutral sensation, Mosk surrendering to it with a sigh.

Mosk discovered that Stertes’ hair felt thick and healthy, like the shine would impart itself to his fingers if he kept touching it. He learned, when Stertes was completely undressed, that he had two ridges running down his back where very fine fins still grew, as pale a blue as the light around them. They felt silky and breakable, and Mosk only touched them because he was absently reminded of a fire fae, and wings, and because he didn’t want to think about anything else.

He spiralled down into a whirlpool, Stertes helped him with his hands and his mouth. All Mosk saw in Stertes’ eyes was the glow of triumph and success. The expression of someone who had his conquest. Mosk closed his eyes and let himself be rolled onto his stomach and spread his legs, and didn’t care. He’d known all of this. He’d known all of this for so long. It was stupid to think that Eran could ever help him leave this place.

Really, not that much time passed since the last time someone who didn’t give a shit about him had fucked him. He hadn’t been travelling with Eran for _that_ long.

When long fingers sank into him, stretched him open, he was dimly surprised that it wasn’t easier. His body didn’t give in as quickly, the pain was more noticeable. He felt nauseous, tired, blurry. His body responded sluggishly as the vier continued to work through him. Where he wanted only numbness, he thought he should fight, felt odd hiccups in his memory where he expected Eran’s voice and the warmth of his hands, his breath, the way Eran found ways to be closer to him even when Mosk didn’t think it was possible.

‘You’re not very good at this, are you?’ Stertes said, sliding three fingers into him.

‘No,’ Mosk said, not seeing the point in lying. ‘I’ve had a lot of practice and I never got any better.’

‘You’re far too honest for an Unseelie fae,’ Stertes said, his voice almost gentle. ‘The world is going to destroy you.’

‘Yeah,’ Mosk sighed.

He hoped it would.

When Stertes slid his cock into him, cold with lubricant, Mosk stiffened, tensed, surprised at the length and not having paid attention to how little preparation he got. It didn’t feel like enough. Stertes had hard hands, cruel fingers digging into his hip and thigh, and Mosk had a moment to think that maybe he should say something, and then decided it really wasn’t worth it. Stertes had bothered with lubricant, fingers, stretching. It was more than he’d gotten from hundreds of fae.

It was the last thing he was aware of before vanishing completely.

*

He blinked when he felt something soft falling on his back. At first he thought it was a blanket, but as he moved heavily, weakly, he saw that it was his own shirt. Stertes was already dressed, a fresh glass of vier in his hand and the door closing, like it had been delivered to him by someone who would have seen Mosk naked and prone.

Mosk, expecting the numbness he’d felt during the sex to last for the rest of his life was shocked when hopelessness gave way to a sharp, prickling anguish. He gasped.

‘Get dressed,’ Stertes said, taking a sip. ‘It’s time for you to go.’

Mosk’s throat hurt as he swallowed, reaching for his shirt and looking for his pants. They were on the wet floor where Stertes had left them. They were soaked. He could feel come leaking out of him, felt it burning, not like Eran’s, but like there was something in it that didn’t agree with his skin.

He hadn’t attempted to stop him. He’d _encouraged_ Stertes.

Maybe things hadn’t been completely ruined before, but they were now.

‘It’s probably a good thing that I won’t get to fuck a seventh son of a seventh son again,’ Stertes said, walking over to a table with a large mirror attached and checking his hair, his face. He looked impeccable. ‘Not when they’re such dead lays to begin with.’

Mosk’s breathing was shallow as he yanked his pants on. Stertes’ words hurt, but they were nothing compared to the roiling turmoil inside of him. Why didn’t he feel this earlier? Why was he feeling this _at all?_ He was supposed to be numb!

As he stumbled towards the door, Stertes stepped in front of him and looked down at him, a smile at the corners of his sulking mouth.

‘After that, I sympathise with your companion,’ he said. ‘I really do.’

‘Get out of my way.’

‘Gladly,’ Stertes said, stepping back. ‘I’ll not keep you. I believe the rest of my night will be spent finding something to get the taste of this encounter out of my mouth.’

Mosk closed the door behind him, leaving, not liking the way the other fae looked at him _now_ as he walked through their lounge, past seahorse shifters and soldiers and the bartender who scrutinised him with narrow eyes.

He burst out into the fresh night air and staggered away from their cabins, moving quickly away from fairy lights into the shadows and hoping that if he did have magic and it did hide him, it would hide him now. It would hide him _forever._

There was something wrong. Something deep inside of him, a bad thing he brought into other people’s lives. He kept expecting emptiness to erase what he felt, but it wouldn’t come, everything clamouring until he was driven to the mast, climbing to the crow’s nest with clumsy hands and feet – slipping twice and only managing to just catch himself – in his need to get as far away from the ship as possible.

The crow’s nest was empty. Mosk didn’t stand, he stayed crouched in dark shadows, wrapping his arms around himself, feeling disgusting and wretched. He had no right to feel this way, not when he was the pollutant. Not when he dragged whatever miasma was in him around to everyone he met.

He flung his forearm over his face as his eyes hurt, his throat swelled. But no tears came, and aside from a few raspy noises, he didn’t cry. It was as though his body had forgotten how. Hanging in this limbo where his body didn’t know how to express any of the depths of his feelings tearing at him. He wanted an outlet, wanted to be _upset,_ and instead he just crouched there in the dark and didn’t know what to do, listening to the harsh in and out of his breathing, the way it shook in the dark.

Eventually he slid down, legs going straight in front of him. He dug his cold fingers into his wet pockets and felt for the shell, thinking that he’d put it there. Instead he felt something cold and small, and brought out a tiny piece of stone that flashed an oak leaf at him under the stars.

He crushed his fingers around it, eyes squeezing shut, his whole body trembling.

He ruined everything. He ruined every good thing he’d ever had. He did it on purpose. He did it by accident. But he would always do it, even at the expense of himself. He sat there, getting colder and colder, come still leaking from him and probably staining his already wet pants. His arms came up and wrapped around his head, fists in his hair, and he bowed into himself, knees bending once more. He listened to the high pitched wheeze of his breathing and nearly laughed for daring to feel so awful when he’d done something that Eran could never forgive or accept.

Because it would _hurt_ him so badly.

When he felt the bursts of laughter or sobs starting in his chest, he opened his mouth wide and bit down so hard on his upper arm that the place where his feeding teeth used to be lanced bright with sharp, wrenching agony. Mosk only bit down harder, tasting blood, feeling pain all the way from his teeth, down his throat, pooling at his collarbones, a deep, stretching agony, following the path that the Mages had made, when they’d shoved wires into his empty gum sockets and pushed them down, ruining him for feeding on trees the way he should ever again.  

*

Two hours later, drenched by the squall that had come and lain into the ship, Mosk looked up and was surprised to see a raven – the Raven Prince – perched on the crow’s nest. Mosk hadn’t heard him come.

He uncurled, his body stiff, his head pounding. He tasted a bitter, awful sweet-saltiness in his mouth that he wanted to spit away. He made himself swallow instead.

The clouds had blown away, galaxies wheeled slowly above, and the Raven Prince shifted into human form as he turned, facing Mosk while sitting on the crow’s nest. He looked down at him, expression sober, and for a single, horrid minute, Mosk thought the Raven Prince would know what he’d done and hate him for it, would cast him away.

‘I’m so awful,’ Mosk said, his voice breaking like he’d been crying for hours when he hadn’t managed a single tear.

‘You certainly don’t smell the best,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘You’ve come to the wrong place for comfort.’

‘I didn’t come here for comfort,’ Mosk said, rolling his eyes. ‘There’s just nowhere else to go, short of drowning myself, and I’m sure the House of Atros wouldn’t allow that.’

‘Are you cold?’

‘Yeah.’

The Raven Prince raised his index finger to his lips – the one that had been previously severed by Gwyn – and whispered a word into it. Mosk never heard it, only saw the Raven Prince’s mouth moving. Then the Raven Prince gracefully pointed that finger at Mosk, and a few seconds later his clothing began to dry, he felt warmed from the inside. He looked at the Raven Prince in amazement, but he’d only placed both hands on the crow’s nest so he could lean back and look up at the stars, legs swinging gently back and forth.

‘Do you know the night-scented orchid?’ the Raven Prince said to the sky.

‘Which one?’

The Raven Prince looked at him, and Mosk shrugged.

‘There’s like twenty.’

‘Twenty,’ the Raven Prince said, a half-smile on his face. ‘Twenty? Really? I only knew of two.’

‘At least twenty.’

‘Could you make them all?’ the Raven Prince said, grinning, teeth white. ‘Could you bring them all to life here? I’m asking too much of an Aur dryad, aren’t I? Terribly unfair of me. But if you show me three, it will be more than I’ve ever seen before. I adore night-flowering plants, but the orchids are special, aren’t they?’

Mosk didn’t care enough to protest. He didn’t care enough to wonder if he could do it or not. He lay his tired fingers down on the crow’s nest and thought of orchids and their hungry little ways, how they craved specific wasps and bees and insects, how they needed specific trees and shrubs and root systems in which to grow. He imagined them sprouting and growing, their blossoms maturing, only to flower once a year.

When he opened his eyes, he looked around at what he’d brought forth. Over a hundred blossoms, representing twenty three different night-scented orchids, impossible not to breathe in their aroma, more fragrant than even the vier. The Raven Prince slid down, heels touching the ground lightly and crouched before one that was large and golden, touching delicate fingers to the largest petal.

‘A marvel,’ he breathed. ‘Do you know where this grows normally?’

‘The Aur forest,’ Mosk said, eyes sliding over to it. ‘So it’s extinct now.’

‘But it is right here,’ the Raven Prince said, cupping it with his fingers, his brows arching.

‘And it’ll die here, too,’ Mosk said.

The Raven Prince contemplated the orchid, touching the fingers of both hands to it. He bent forwards and breathed in, sighing in pleasure. He looked at the flower like it was a miracle, beholding it with the wonder of a child. Mosk thought it was easy to see why so many fae loved him.

‘Sit up on the crow’s nest with me,’ the Raven Prince said, though he still looked at the orchid. ‘I have something to tell you that I have never told another soul before. I may or may not take the story back from you once I’ve shared it.’

Mosk stood, careful of the orchids, and pushed himself up onto the crow’s nest, sliding his legs over so that he faced the winds and the rest of the ship. The Raven Prince did the same, sitting right beside him. Mosk knew the Raven Prince wouldn’t fall, but he thought he might after the amount of vier he’d consumed.

They looked out together, and the Raven Prince eventually lay his palms flat on his thighs. The wind looped around them, but like this, they were far away from the sounds of the rest of the ship. It was only them, the breezes, the sea. Private, even though it was the most exposed place they could be.

‘I am a seventh son of a seventh son,’ the Raven Prince said.

_Better not let Stertes fuck you then, he’ll think you’re a dead lay._

Mosk kept his mouth shut.

‘And just like you, I once had my heartsong taken from me because of it.’

It took a moment for the words to sink in properly. When they did, Mosk felt it like a blow to his chest, turning to stare at the Raven Prince, eyes wide, mouth open. But the Raven Prince stared ahead, blinking like he didn’t have a care in the world. He even looked peaceful.

‘It grew back,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘After a while.’

‘But-’

‘Be quiet,’ the Raven Prince said. Then he closed his eyes, and Mosk realised that this wasn’t easy for him. Even after all this time, it wasn’t easy for him. The Raven Prince opened his eyes again and stared ahead. ‘I was not yet a member of the School of the Staff. I was still a child. My magic had begun to reveal itself, I was stolen from everything I knew shortly after I’d chosen my true name and eaten my birth-name from my family and anyone else who’d heard it. Two Mages came and stole me. They did not intend for me to survive.’

The Raven Prince trailed his index finger across his thigh, like he was writing something, but eventually his hand went still again.

‘What power they must have felt,’ the Raven Prince said, ‘to have learned the knowledge they did together, to see what they were capable of, what great things indeed. With me, they wanted to know if the magic of a seventh son of a seventh son would return. And then, could they harvest that again, if they waited long enough? They harvested my magic from me three times, but they only had one heartsong from me, I was too ruined by their methods, and it took me a long time to recover.’

Mosk stared at him. _Three times._ Mosk only had his magic harvested from him once, and he’d begged to die so many times that words came to lose all meaning. How the Raven Prince was even functional was something Mosk didn’t understand.

‘Nine months, three days, and twenty one hours,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘That was how long they had me. They only released me because I made a promise. I offered them something, I swore to owe them a debt – whatever they wanted – if they would give to me life, or my death, anything but the limbo they kept me in.’

Mosk now straddled the crow’s nest, gripping it tightly, staring at the Raven Prince, transfixed. He could almost imagine it, but it was impossible to imagine how much worse it had been for him. How did no one know? How did he become the beloved Raven Prince?  

‘Can you guess the debt?’ the Raven Prince said, smiling.

Mosk shook his head.

‘Then I shall tell you another story, so that you may see how deep their power stretches. Once, there were no statuses, the Kingdoms of the Unseelie and Seelie were only palaces. They were vulnerable to attack and war, they were not magically protected, they could not be formed anew with each monarch from an endless well of magic. _Magic,_ Mosk. An endless well of _magic._ But these things don’t come from nowhere, do they? It’s nice to think they do, but a fantasy. Who do you think gave such a profound gift to the Unseelie and Seelie Court? Who do you think made that land inviolable to attack and incursion?’

Mosk felt like he was choking, even though he wasn’t. He felt an awareness crash all the way through him until it landed, striking at the core of him.

‘They gave their magic,’ Mosk whispered.

‘In truth, I believe they ripped the heartsong from another fae, and gave _their_ magic, reinforcing it with their own.’

‘What was your heartsong used for?’

‘To make the fixed classes,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘To render Kings nigh immortal, make them the arbiters of class and divide the world between underfae and all the rest. And then, to fix alignments in place, so that all fae must be born Seelie, or Unseelie, and no fae may ever change.’

Mosk placed his hand over his mouth, and the Raven Prince nodded soberly. Where before he’d been smiling at times, now there were shadows under his eyes and a tightness to his jaw and lips that hadn’t been there before.

‘Truthfully,’ the Raven Prince said, ‘most fae cannot change their alignment. But some could. Olphix and Davix remained the only fae who could change alignment after. Of course they like to be the exception. Olphix was born Unseelie, Davix was born Seelie, but I believe they have switched back and forth as it suited them. For most fae it was a slow process, not easily chosen, and often unconscious. Some fae had almost no alignment at all. No trow ever called themselves Seelie or Unseelie until the Mages forced them to with a spell they placed upon the world, and even then the trows resented it, comingling, trying to ignore the barriers set to divide them.’

The Raven Prince licked his lips and then reached up to scratch at his hair. A long pinion feather loosened and he drew it free, turning it in his hands, the filaments shining blue and violet depending on the angle. After a minute, the Raven Prince handed the feather to Mosk, who took it carefully, feeling the way the wind blew against it and the feather tugged, like it wanted to be airborne. He let it go, and it escaped wild into the night.

‘They said that if I came to the School of the Staff to train my magic, they would never harm me like they’d harmed me, ever again, not even to gain my new heartsong or my magic. But in exchange for my life, for the training, I had to promise to become King for them. And once King, I had to wait for them to come and call in their very specific debt, at a time of their choosing. You see, once they’d made the wells of magic in both Courts, they’d locked themselves away from it. Only the current monarchs could use it, no one else could. _They_ could only access it if a monarch promised them access to it. And a monarch would only do that under extreme duress and, I believe, no monarch would agree to it once they ruled. The debt had to be sworn before one was ever fully aware of what it means to be King or Queen of the Unseelie and Seelie Courts.’

‘They wanted to take their magic back,’ Mosk said.

‘Quercus and I both, it turned out, had sold our souls to Davix and Olphix, for different reasons. I don’t know the circumstances of what made him promise such a thing, only that he did before he came to rule, and that once he had the throne, he knew he couldn’t stay when it looked like they were ready to call in their debt.’

All of that made Mosk’s mind reel, but what he kept getting stuck on was the very beginning of the story.

‘They took your heartsong,’ Mosk whispered.

The Raven Prince’s expression shuttered, went blank, and then he simply nodded.

‘I am so sorry,’ Mosk said.

‘You would be,’ he said. ‘You’re one of the only two people left alive who knows what it feels like. When I saw you, I saw it, the wound I had previously only ever seen in myself. I knew.’

Mosk realised that was why the Raven Prince had known they’d taken his heartsong, even though he didn’t touch him to realise. He thought back to the way the Raven Prince had stared at him the first time they’d met, like he was reading the darkest pain inside of him. In a way, he was, because he shared that pain too.

Mosk couldn’t think of anything to say. He was horrified. Mosk could understand the Mages doing what they did to him, but he couldn’t understand why anyone would want to hurt the Raven Prince, and like _that._ To harvest his magic not once, not twice, but three times, and then extracting a sworn promise so daring. To tell a traumatised boy that he must become King, only to wait and watch the Unseelie Court be destroyed because of it.

As the fragrance of night-scented orchids drifted over to them, Mosk wished he knew what to do, what to say. But he also knew there was nothing to do or to say. He knew why the Raven Prince had never spoken about this with anyone before. He knew this wouldn’t make the Raven Prince feel better.

‘I spent my time,’ the Raven Prince said, ‘in that Unseelie Court making the most of it, but always knowing they would return. I had many years shoring it up, strengthening it, turning it into a place the Unseelie could be proud of. Then, they sent their protégé to me, the Nightingale, and that was when I knew I was on a truly short leash and they would come for me. I had to duck my debt, and I had to do it in a very specific way. You cannot simply _avoid_ a debt with a Mage if you have the power to fulfil it. And so I had to make sure I didn’t have the power to fulfil it. And I had to make sure that I wasn’t the one to directly remove that power. I would have done anything, to anyone, in order to have avoided paying that debt.’

The Raven Prince looked down, and after a moment he turned into a raven, then changed into his lean human form once more, then a raven, cawing once in ragged, harsh distress. Finally he changed back into human form, kicking his heels back hard into the crow’s nest, his neck and shoulders tense, his chest moving on small, quick, shallow breaths.

‘Do you know, I – a raven, nothing more – I walked into that Unseelie Court for the first time as only underfae and I felt it, the Zahakhar. Not everyone who rules the Unseelie Court feels it. Zahakh, a very old, stern and powerful King decided to lay a curse upon the Court, or a blessing if you like, depending on your perspective. Whomsoever will make a good ruler, who is intended to be King according to the fates, will feel the Zahakhar envelop them, and they will rule well and wisely. As soon as I felt it, I knew I could never let them get their hands on that well of power, Mosk. Not even if it was always theirs to begin with, not even if they razed the world to bring that much death to weigh upon my conscience – for I do have one, I swear it – not even if they cut my wings from my back and told me I could never fly again.’

‘This is why you can’t see them,’ Mosk said. ‘You’re in danger.’

‘I can’t fight them,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘As soon as one of them so much as sees me again, in the flesh, they can call upon their debt and I _must_ fulfil it. Because I happen to know how to get into the Unseelie Court – even though I am no longer King – and I know how to get to that well of power, and so I _must_ fulfil the debt due to knowledges I wish I didn’t have. And then not only will Olphix have the power of the classless, Mosk Manytrees, he will…’

The Raven Prince looked at the sky.

‘We have our own names for the constellations,’ he said, and Mosk looked up too, understanding why the Raven Prince had to talk about something else. He felt tangled up in it, the quiet desperation, the rawness he heard in a voice so often turned to charm and tricks and mischief.

‘The raven shifters?’

‘Yes,’ he said, pointing up at a cluster. ‘There is the First Moult, and over there…’ He pointed to three stars in a triangle, another below it. ‘There is White Jack, the first trickster, who wore a jaunty hat and knew every song before it had ever been played, except for his own, which he searches for still.’

‘We call that one the Nascent Tree,’ Mosk said. ‘A single taproot sinking down, and three leaves, so small it looks like nothing at all.’

‘Yes,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘The Nascent Tree, that then becomes the Great Oak.’ The Raven Prince’s index finger moved again. ‘Then, it becomes the night soil of the sky, ready to birth more seeds in the form of stars.’

‘Yeah,’ Mosk said, nodding.

‘I do not think he will attempt to resurrect his brother,’ the Raven Prince said, lowering his hand. ‘I think Olphix will attempt to destroy everything we have ever known. The past, present and future. Time and space. Everything we have ever been. Every star, every piece of matter and antimatter, every molecule and atom. I do not know if he can do it with that power in the Unseelie and Seelie Courts, but I will never let him try. I hate them both, Mosk Manytrees, and I promised to be the one to kill them but it was a promise I made myself and it is one I have to break, to make sure they cannot use me to destroy something far greater than myself.’

The Raven Prince took two shaking breaths, then turned to Mosk abruptly and said something in that horrible, clattering language that froze Mosk’s body, even his eyelids, and stole the words from inside his mouth. Then two cold fingertips pressed against Mosk’s lips, and the Raven Prince stared at him with his black, endless eyes.

Mosk waited in that silence, unable to move, to speak, trying to let the Raven Prince know that he would understand if the story needed to be taken back. If it had to be removed from him. He didn’t want it, but he would understand.

‘It would be nothing more than a mere afterthought to eat this story and all memory of it back from you,’ the Raven Prince said, his fingertips pressing harder against Mosk’s mouth. ‘To carve it from your mind as Olphix and Davix carved your magic and heartsong and will to live from you. And it would still not make me the monsters they are. Nothing ever will.’

Mosk trembled, waiting for the Raven Prince to work his terrible magic, and the Raven Prince stared at him unblinking for so long that Mosk’s eyes hurt.

The Raven Prince yanked his hand back, his clenched fist resting on his thigh. Mosk waited a minute, and then said the words he didn’t want to say.

‘I have to tell Gwyn,’ Mosk said.

The words that he’d heard – and hated – every time he’d heard them from Eran, but now he was the one saying them, and he was sure that the Raven Prince would be right to eat that story back because of it. But instead the Raven Prince only nodded.

‘You should make sure Augus is there to witness it,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘It’s important that he know…though I doubt it will matter much. Also, I suppose I should be there too.’

The Raven Prince sounded so tired. He seemed like a figure that never felt tired, or sad, or desperate, or panicked. Mosk had seen it all tonight. The rawness of it had clawed furrows inside of him.

‘Not yet,’ the Raven Prince said fervently, quietly. ‘Not yet. This will change everything. I do like change, but this is rather different, isn’t it?’

Mosk nodded.

‘I wanted to hear his story first,’ the Raven Prince said wistfully, ‘because I knew I would have to share mine. I tried to eat it out of myself once, but that sort of recursive language consumption is impossible, and I made myself very sick for a few months. I believe it made me quite mad.’

‘We can wait here first,’ Mosk said. ‘For a while.’

‘You might want to shower anyway,’ the Raven Prince said, ‘for they will know what you have been up to by scent alone.’

The thought of that was awful, but Mosk nodded again.

The two of them didn’t move, side by side on one of the highest points of the Mantissa, far above the world and the sea swell moving and foaming alongside the ship.

‘I no longer crave death,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘But I am only a bird, and I fear what comes next.’

‘I’m only a tree,’ Mosk said, ‘I don’t even know what kind of tree I am. I’m always afraid.’

The Raven Prince lifted a hand like he was about to touch Mosk, on the shoulder, or on his hand, but the Raven Prince made a small sound in his throat, almost like a laugh, and his hand curled back onto his lap.

‘You must continue my legacy,’ he said. ‘You must thwart them in any way you know how. Whatever you have to sacrifice, you must sacrifice. Whatever you have to risk, you will risk it. I did not train in that School, under their watchful eyes, under the cruel hands of Taronis… I did not become King, waiting amongst my courtiers and Winter Courts and night gardens… I did not do _any_ of this, for you to throw it away. You have no debt with them. Destroy everyone and everything, if you must. Just make sure you destroy _them.’_

‘I’ve already killed one of them.’

‘You haven’t realised?’ the Raven Prince said, something chilling in his voice. ‘If Davix is a ghost, he can be resurrected, and if Olphix learns of this, he _will resurrect him._ We live in a world where everything is stacked in their favour and my return means only one more way they can access more power if they find me.’

‘You must have been scared that day you went into my dreams to see if it was really Davix,’ Mosk said. ‘Really scared. You were so brave, and none of us knew.’

The night didn’t pause around them, but Mosk still felt like it did. He could smell the sea and the orchids, he was warmed through with kind magic and he could feel the distress radiating from the Raven Prince even though his body seemed relaxed and calm.

But then the Raven Prince turned into a raven. His feathers sleek and his beak pointed black and sharp to the sky. He spread his wings out and dropped his head and cawed and cawed and cawed, the sound rough and fraught. Mosk closed his eyes and pressed his hand over his mouth and thought his heart was breaking just when he was sure there was nothing left to break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our next chapter, 'Long Past Due':
> 
> ‘You?’ Augus said faintly, almost affectionately mocking. ‘You will not even say what is on your mind now.’ 
> 
> ‘I shall not place you in the position of needing to offer me consolation, nor shall I place myself in the position of not knowing if you would even provide it. So no, some things are only for me, now.’ 
> 
> ‘A part of me will always love you,’ Augus said, and the Raven Prince flinched backwards. ‘But I don’t want you.’ 
> 
> ‘And here I thought we could avoid this ugliness,’ the Raven Prince said. 
> 
> ‘Do you know,’ Augus said softly. ‘If you had just let me be in that Court, let me…be responsible towards you as I was, and ceased your meddling, all of this would be different now.’ 
> 
> ‘I think about that all the time,’ the Raven Prince said. ‘I daresay I shall think on that forever, Augus.’


End file.
